Eye Of The Beholder
by LittlePsychoWolf
Summary: A young weasel, living at Redwall, is tormented by strange dreams; meanwhile, Russano's son flees Salamandastron after a terrible accident. As old enemies resurface, the fates of all are called into question.
1. Prologue: A Way Out Of Hell

**A/N: This is a little experiment of mine, a random idea that popped into my head at some point or another and proceeded to mutate and grow. It's taken shape as, oddly enough, a sort of "partially fill in a canon-hole" fanfic. This takes place shortly after **_**Taggerung;**_** to be more precise, the spring after Rosabel narrated Deyna's story to the Abbey (her prologue/epilogue takes place in winter). Hopefully there are no serious anachronisms; I checked my copy of the book and the Redwall Wikia thoroughly for the relevant info.**

**More importantly, I own very few of these characters. You'll recognize many of them from canon, the Abbey cast of **_**Taggerung **_**in particular, as well as Russano the Wise and his children (mentioned in the prologue to **_**Lord Brocktree**_**). And one from somwhere else altogether, but I'm not at liberty to reveal that now. ;)**

**That being said, here's the prologue. Enjoy.**

* * *

Truly they spoke of the "gates of hell." To be exact, they were made of iron, wrought into vicious spikes and the outlines of hideous figures, unimaginably strong and glowing red with the heat of the inferno. Through them only the damned could pass, and none had ever left. 

Through the gates, that is.

Beyond the Hellgates the ground fell away; there was only a bottomless void, its rock walls flickering with the light of the flames and echoing with the screams of the tormented. It was an eternity of punishment by fire, of debts in evil repaid thousandfold in agony.

But on one of the many ledges cut into the stone, in a particular corner swathed in shadow, there was... escape. Hope for those who deserved none at all.

It was a mere hairline crack, nearly invisible under ordinary circumstances, made doubly so by the surrounding gloom, and the confusing play of firelight beyond that. But it was all that was needed; without the confines of a physical body, any space was enough.

The spirit discovered all this and more, much more. Beyond the crack was a tunnel: a tiny hole that led on and on, continually upwards, for what would have been several days, though it was less than the blink of an eye for him. He had lost any sense of time long, long ago. All he remembered was pain and fire; before that, a confusing blankness that now gnawed constantly at him; and now, the tunnel.

Then there was light and open air, and his memories returned to him; the glory of all he had been, the ignominy of his death. His wonder was tempered now with rage, and he knew, having escaped Hell, that his work on the earth was not yet done.

He felt a sudden, inexorable tug on all his senses, and knew there was a suitable vessel nearby. He would live again through another, beginning anew from infancy. This time, his plans would not fail.

For the first time in any of his forms of life, he obeyed an order. His spectral figure wavered and dissolved,s his essence borne on the rush of the wind towards the mortal frame in which it would soon be bound.

He could not believe the chance had come. The world would fear him again, and now even death could not stop him.

Soon._ So soon..._


	2. Fortune And Accident

Extract from the writings of Rosabel, Abbey Recorder

_It has certainly been an eventful late spring here at our Abbey! Only half a season ago, we were struck by a flood so powerful nobeast living here could remember anything like it. One afternoon the weather was beautiful; that night the skies opened up, and rain poured down for days, lasting a fortnight or more. Everybeast rather lost track, what with worries over our crops and whether the cellars would take on water, and temperamental Dibbuns wreaking mayhem everywhere. We all wish Badgermum Cregga was still here; her guidance and calm wisdom gave everybeast comfort._

_Oh, but I've forgotten the strangest part! Silly me, paying all this attention to every detail but the important ones. During the rains, the Abbey grounds were almost completely underwater. In their place, we had a miniature lake, or more accurately river, with its own little currents rushing every which way. It must have been one of them which sent Redwall's newest resident to our doorstep._

_When we found him, he was a huddled mass of wet fur lying outside the east wallgate, half-submerged in a pool of water. If my mother, who braved the rain-slick ramparts to survey our situation, had not spotted him, he would have drowned within the hour. It was Deyna, our courageous Abbey Champion, who went out into the floods and brought him inside._

_It was then that we found that he was not some unlucky woodlander, but a young weasel. From the moment he was carried in on Deyna's shoulders, many were in favor of throwing him right back out again. Abbess Mhera, showing much more sense, ordered that he be revived and questioned first, and given all possible care. _

_We brought him to Cavern Hole and wrapped him in blankets by the fire, Skipper, his crew, and our Champion keeping close guard at all times. He awoke soon, and showed no signs of attacking. Indeed, he seemed to be in shock, shaking like a leaf, his eyes wide and panicked. Gentle Filorn, quick to act even in her old age, reassured him and gave him some hot soup and bread; once calmed down, he ate like a starving wolf. In a quiet voice he asked to stay by the fire, and said that he was not going to attack any of us. When asked, he said his name was Ciánan, and that he had been wandering Mossflower alone until he had been swept away by the flood. Then he fell silent again, wary of his audience and his strange surroundings._

_Mother Abbess stepped in once more, and announced that until she was given cause to say otherwsise, he would stay. Several of those present grumbled, certainly, but held their tongues._

_Ciánan recovered quickly, and he has been so polite and friendly even the most mistrustful of us often forget what he is. He has a few... odd obsessions, but these are easy to overlook._

_ Now I really must go; we are preparing a Spring Feast, and everybeast is needed to help out in some way. I retire my quill for the day, remembering once more all that I have now related here._

-Rosabel, Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower Country

* * *

Dawn had arrived long before, and the dormitory was calm and filled with sunlight as Ciánan awoke. The young weasel rolled over onto his back, yawned and stretched, then nuzzled his face back into his pillow. He knew he had to be up and working, but surely the Abbey rules could wait another few minutes. 

Then he heard a gruff giggle and the scrabbling sounds of claws on fabric, and in the next second a molebabe had clambered onto the bed and seated himself firmly on Ciánan's chest. The weasel gasped and struggled up as the air was squashed from his lungs, wheezing, "Off, Wurfen, y'rogue! I'm awake, see!"

Wurfen giggled, but obediently moved over, picking up one of the weasel's paws and placing something in it. "Brought 'ee a shoiny, zurr Keenun."

Ciánan raised his paw, and found that the molebabe's "shiny" was a small golden pendant, round and with a simple design etched around its edge. "Where'd you find this little beauty, Wurfen?" he asked, dangling the pendant on its chain from his claw and admiring how it caught the light.

The Dibbun shrugged disarmingly and smiled. "Miz Rozerbul musta droppered it, hurr hurr."

The weasel grinned as well as he hung the pendant around his neck, a cheerful gleam in his blue-gray eyes. "Rosabel dropped it, eh? Thanks, Wurfen. But how'd you know I'd be the only one here, so you could give it to me?"

The molebabe slid off the bed as Ciánan got up, pulling on his habit. "Cuz ee sleepers loike ee dormouser, zurr. Everybeast else bee's at brekkers."

"Well, I'm a hungry dormouse now!" the young weasel teased. "C'mon, little mate, let's get down to Great Hall." The two left the dormitory and headed down the stairs, Wurfen bouncing with delight all the way. Before they entered the Hall, Ciánan tucked the pendant beneath the collar of his habit. Nobeast would miss it, certainly. He'd always been fond of gold.

* * *

Seabirds wheeled and shrieked in the cloudless sky, their darting forms mere dark specks against the vast expanse of blue. Snowstripe, poised on Salmandastron's crater, took a deep breath, rejoicing in the scent of the ocean, the rush of the breeze, and the warmth of the sun. Up here, on the very peak of his mountain, he felt as though he was one with land, sea, and sky. 

Melanius's shriek of fury abruptly shattered his reverie. "What are you_ doing _up here, you little boulderhead? You'll fall off the top of the bloody mountain!"

He turned to face her, a dreamy look still pasted across his muzzle. "You're the boulderhead, Mela. It's so wonderful up here, I'd never fall off. See, I've got perfect footing on this ledge he-"

In the next instant, she had leapt at him, trying to yank him away from the crater's edge. Snowstripe struggled in her grasp, but she was three seasons older than him, and more than a little stronger. Nevertheless, he fought, writhing and kicking furiously, forcing her to stagger around and turn her back to the crater's edge as she sought a firmer stance.

Snowstripe had no idea of what was going on; breaking free of his annoying sibling was his only concern. Thus, when Melanius let out a short, harsh gasp and loosened her grip to clutch desperately at his chestfur, he took it only as a sign of surrender and shook her off without much effort.

Panting heavily, the young badger moved back, looked down... and heard with horror the sound of claws scraping feebly on stone. Only one of Melanius's paws was visible over the mountain's edge; in her struggle to restrain him, she had slipped backwards and fallen.

The paw scrabbled ever more frantically, Melanius crying out in wordless shrieks of pure horror, yet for Snowstripe, time seemed to have stopped as he flung himself down and reached out towards his sister.

_Just a little farther... _Melanius's cries seemed muffled and distant to his ears, as all of a sudden, the paw slipped on the stone, clenched vainly at nothing, and vanished.

Snowstripe did not hear the roar of horror that burst from his throat, nor his sister's scream as she fell. Panic gripped the young badger's senses; he almost leapt off the edge after her before he stumbled back, numb with fear.

His father. Russano the Wise, the calm and dignified Lord of the mountain, would know what to do. His dreamlike trance was broken; Snowstripe raced to the stairs and leapt down them in a headlong rush, his heart pounding as though it would break from his chest. This could not be happening. Melanius, clever, sagacious, determined Melanius, would never... never... never...

It became his mantra as he ran, bulling startled hares aside like ninepins, flinging open doors, racing down staircase and corridor, howling the name of his father in a voice cracked and hoarse with dread. _Never... never... never... _

It was the painful gasp of air in his lungs and the frantic drum-beat of the blood roaring in his ears. _Never... never... never... never..._

* * *

**A/N: Hope this wasn't too confusing or anything. But hey, Jacques, you don't give minor canon characters a story, I make them suffer. C'mon, you always wanted to know what happened to Russano.**

**Oh, and before you think I've finally gone over the Badfic Edge, Ciánan [KEE-nan) is not your ordinary reformed!vermin. Trust me.**


	3. Emotion

Russano the Wise rested his chin on one massive paw, staring thoughtfully out of the dining hall window towards the horizon. His dark eyes rested for a time on the blue-green of the ocean, dappled with liquid gold by the noon sun. The Badger Lord pondered the ancient mysteries of deep water, its majesty, subtlety, and unpredictability; dangerous and yet, so beautiful...

There was a great crash as the oaken doors burst open and Snowstripe staggered in, his chest heaving, his jaws flecked with froth, eyes glazed and terrified. "Yes, Snowstripe, what... what is going on?" Russano demanded, whirling around to look at his son, his deep voice rising higher with instinctive concern.

The young badger could only manage a hoarse, cracked wheeze, gasping out incoherent syllables. "Melan... mela... fe...cra..." Then he stiffened, quivering from head to footpaws, and cried out piteously. Russano had not heard such a noise since his son was a newborn cub, cold and frightened with coming into the world, and pleading for his mother.

The Badger Lord leapt from his seat and rushed to his son's side as he collapsed, whimpering, on the stone floor. "Snowstripe!" he roared, lifting the young badger's chin and forcing their frightened gazes to lock.

With an eerie suddenness, the mindless, glassy look vanished from Snowstripe's eyes, and with the emotionless calm of pure terror he said clearly, "Melanius fell off the top of the crater."

* * *

While Abbey life was certainly preferable to being drowned or dying slowly of starvation, at times the large amount of menial labor involved grated a bit on Ciánan's nerves. The young weasel was currently down in the cellars, aiding Drogg Spearback in taking out barrels for the upcoming feast, and he felt he couldn't take much more of the dank, dust-laden gloom, his shoulders and back already aching terribly.

"Would it bother my lord Cellarhog if his young vassal returned to the world above for a mere few minutes?" Ciánan asked mockingly, executing a flourishing bow to fit the tone of his speech.

Drogg chuckled, clapping the weasel firmly on the back. "Sure thing y'can. Cellar'og work ain't fer everybeast. Lots of work needs doin' up in the upper world too, mind!" Ciánan smiled politely and trotted away up the stairs, wincing at the further pain in his back from Spearback's clout and fingering the chain of the concealed pendant around his neck.

Brushing a stray cobweb from his headfur, the young weasel entered the Great Hall. The room was quiet and empty, with sunlight tinted a rainbow of colors filtering through the stained-glass windows, and tiny motes of dust drifting up towards the vaulted ceiling. His sandals making soft clopping sounds on the stone floor, Ciánan paused halfway across, staring silently at the wondrous tapestry he faced.

They had explained to him the story of the mouse Warrior, and he'd nodded and appeared interested enough to satisfy them, though privately their devotion somewhat amused him. His eyes flicked over the woven scene with little or no real emotion, but they acquired a certain gleam as he looked upward and saw the sword resting above the tapestry, its blade glinting lightning-white in the sun.

He turned away and continued out of the Hall, hoping he could remember where at least one of the doors was. Bloody huge, this place was.

Deyna, standing unseen and unheard by the opposite doorway, watched the weasel leave. So he takes an interest in Martin, then, the otter thought. Or does he merely covet the sword? ...No, he decided after a few moments of thought, he is not of that type, not a thief or coward.

The Champion turned and walked away, absentmindedly running a paw down his face where his Juska tattoos had once been, wondering vaguely if it had just been a reflection of the colored windows, so brilliant with the sunlight, that had given Ciánan's eyes that slightest gleam of blue.

* * *

Snowstripe's voice was barely above a whisper, yet so silent was the room that its tones echoed and re-echoed off the high rock walls. Russano's face was utterly expressionless; his mind refused to process what had been said. The Badger Lord shook his head slowly from side to side, like a cub who does not understand the lesson his teacher has told him. "I'm sorry, son, I don't..."

The young badger wriggled out of his father's grip on his shoulders, managing to stand despite his shaking limbs, so weak and powerless he felt as though he was made of water. "You have to come and help, Father," he muttered through his tears, his voice constricted with grief. "Father knows what to do," he said softly, more to himself this time than to Russano. "Father always knows what to do..."

He turned away, moving at first with agonizing slowness; then with another great cry he bounded for the doors, Russano pounding along beside him. The Badger Lord was speechless with confusion and a growing horror; passing hares called out, hurried up, asking what was wrong, yet Russano the Wise took no heed of them. As they ran towards the doors, outside, across the sand, towards Salamandastron's massive base, his son's quiet chant of "Father... Father... Father... Father..." was the only thing he could hear.

* * *

The sun was slowly sinking from its noon zenith as Russano and Snowstripe reached the side of the mountain, and Melanius seemed bathed in light. Her eyes were closed, her body lay twisted at impossible angles, her neck wrenched savagely to one side by the force of her fall. Yet it was simply the outstretched paw, still clutching desperately at the air for help that had never come, that made Snowstripe turn away from his sister and fall to his knees, retching, upon the sand.

Russano, too, had collapsed by the motionless form, so stocky and vibrant in life, now so fragile-looking and broken she seemed like a discarded toy. He wept softly, shaking his head, running a paw over the lifeless face, shaking his daughter's shoulders, pleading in a choked, rasping voice for her to move, to open her eyes, to breathe.

Snowstripe pressed his muzzle against the warm sand, trying to close his senses, his chest heaving. Unknown to him or Russano, a small audience of hares had gathered; portly matrons chattering nervously, officers trying to take control, a few babes beginning to wail.

What happened at that next moment was something that would stay fixed in Snowstripe's mind forever, a final horror to end a day of horrors.

Russano the Wise, kneeling over his daughter's body, threw back his head and roared, a deep, wordless howl filled with despair. It was something from before the spoken word, from the primal ages, the ancient, hopeless cry of the wounded beast resounding into the day.

Snowstripe did not even realize that he spoke, but suddenly his voice joined that of his father's, in a hurried rush of words that to him was almost a confessional. "Father, Father, she tried to save me, she thought I was in danger, and I didn't know she was falling, I thought she was playing, and I... and I... and..." The young badger dropped his head, unable to go on.

Yet Russano, his mind wracked with anguish, a strange anger stealing over his senses, understood. He did not know what was happening to him; the only things that existed to him were the words of his son and the motionless body of his daughter. He was no longer Russano the Wise; he was an animal consumed totally with grief, and in the seconds that followed, he was barely aware of the rush of crimson that suffused his mind.

Snowstripe too felt something strange come over him at that moment; he looked up, and saw a mask of fury that was not his father, not at all, not this.. this thing with bared teeth and savage roar and narrowed eyes that were that brilliant, deep, unmistakable red...

The hares, as one, cried out in shock, and Snowstripe backed away, almost paralyzed with terror. The Bloodwrath was upon Russano the Wise.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks, everyone, for your encouragement. Guess not as much was wrong with the previous chapter as I thought.**

**To everyone who asked, I repeat: Yes, there is a great significance to Ciánan's pendant. No, I cannot tell you what this is. You'll find out later.**

**Kelaiah, sorry you weren't overly fond of the prologue, but it was designed to be a bit creepy, easy to skip over and get to the real story. Things'll hopefully make sense. (With less ego involved, I will confess that I don't write very good prologues. Shhh! ;D)**


	4. Dreams

The faintest silver gleam of moonlight, filtering through the drawn curtains, reflected in Ciánan's eyes as, abandoning his fitful tossing and turning, the young weasel stared moodily at the floor. He felt exhausted and yet somehow restless, longing for sleep to ease the strange feelings gnawing at the back of his mind.

With his thoughts thus occupied, he was not aware of ever actually dozing off, but he opened his eyes to find himself standing in a great room made of red stone. It was vast and square, with rows of carved columns, as wide around as tree trunks, reaching from floor to ceiling to take the place of walls. He looked upwards, and saw with surprise that the ceiling was invisible; the mighty pillars stretched up into darkness, shrouded with mist.

He heard no pawsteps on the stone, but he swiveled his head to see somebeast approaching from the opposite end of the hall, a dark form advancing through the swirling fog.

Ciánan drew in a sharp gasp as the figure became clear; it was the mouse warrior, the mouse from the tapestry! The great sword was held in one strong paw, gleaming so bright it seemed to reflect off of the mist. His dark eyes were soft, calm, and infinitely wise as he looked upon the weasel, yet there was a strange air about him, something vaguely uneasy or resigned; he shifted from footpaw to footpaw as though longing to bolt.

Ciánan noticed none of this; he was totally absorbed in the wonder of this visitation. Almost without thinking, he bowed his head to the apparition, and the Warrior said softly, "Rise, young one. Do not defer to me."

"Do you have something to tell me, then, mouse- er, Martin?" Ciánan whispered.

Martin closed his eyes and looked away briefly, then nodded, fixing the weasel once more in his powerful gaze. He moved slowly forward, his footpaws never quite touching the floor, and rested the flat of the swordblade on Ciánan's shoulder, speaking low and clear, his voice echoing off the surrounding stone.

"Ciánan, if you follow the path fate has set for you, you will have a destiny that will touch the lives of many other beasts. You will follow the way of the blade, and only when the past is repeated, at life's end, will you know what you truly are." He did not seem to breathe, yet the sound of a long sigh resounded through the chamber.

The young weasel bowed his head once more as the Warrior withdrew, saying, "I thank you, Martin, for revealing my destiny to me."

There was once more something strange, that same quiet, unhappy agitation deep in the mouse's dark eyes, and once more Ciánan noticed nothing of it.

The movements of the fog increased in strength, till it surged around the chamber like some ghostly wave, ebbing and flowing like the ocean, veiling the room in white. When Ciánan's vision cleared, the chamber was dark and empty, and when he blinked and looked again he found himself staring up at the dormitory ceiling, in a room once more filled with light.

* * *

Moments later, the young weasel was out of bed and bounding down the stairs; though he remembered nothing of his dream, he felt that he had to get to the Great Hall as quickly as possible. He skidded to a halt in front of Martin's tapestry, surprising the Abbeydwellers still at breakfast and crashing full-force into Deyna, who had been standing in the same exact place.

Ciánan hastily extricated himself, muttering rushed and fervent apologies; the strength and size of the powerful otter Champion still made him slightly nervous, despite the fact that it was he who had saved his life. Deyna merely chuckled good-naturedly as he got up as well, but his grin did not last, and in his calculating eyes and the set of his jaw there was nothing but the utmost seriousness.

"I had a strange dream last night, Ciánan," he said, and with those solemn words and the intensity of his stare, the same memory returned to the young weasel, the same words coming unbidden from his lips.

"Er, you go first," Ciánan muttered, rather embarrassed at his interruption.

Deyna nodded. "Martin the Warrior came to me," he continued, gesturing towards the tapestry as he spoke, either politely ignoring or totally unaware of the small audience now hanging on his every word. "He spoke of you, saying-"

Yet again, Ciánan spoke for the otter, cutting across his words only to repeat them in a voice filled with wonder and confusion. "- that I would have a destiny that would touch many other beasts, that I would follow the way of the blade, and and only when the past is repeated, at... at... life's end, would... would I..." He trailed off, feeling shivers running down his spine, though some inner part of him recoiled at allowing himself to show his weakness.

"Yes," Deyna said thoughtfully, "exactly that. I understand much of it, as Martin showed me the way to my own destiny when I lived with the Juskarath, but 'the way of the blade' could mean many things, and repeating the past at life's end? That makes even less sense to me."

From behind them there came a sharp intake of breath, and both beasts turned to see Sister Floburt with her paw over her mouth; it was she who had gasped, and she flushed at seeing them stare.

"I'm sorry," she squeaked at last, as her brother Egburt rolled his eyes ceilingward. "It's just... no, silly me, I'm sorry," she repeated, "I just always thought I was good at solving riddles, and..."

"Get on with it!" Egburt muttered, his headspikes rattling in irritation.

"Well, I thought... I thought maybe," Floburt said meekly, conscious of everybeast's attention, "that when Martin said 'way of the blade,' he meant... he meant, oh no offense meant, Ciánan, it's just so _strange_..."

She trailed off again, but returned Egburt's glare and continued on her own, finally saying desperately, "I... I thought he meant Ciánan was going to be the next Abbey Warrior!"

The young weasel stammered in disbelief, as all around him everybeast began talking at once, and the Great Hall swiftly became a scene of total chaos.

* * *

Martin shook his spectral head sadly as he watched the unfolding pandemonium in his Abbey, knowing where it would all now lead. It had been his unhappy duty to deliver fate's plans for him to this young weasel, yet he had still held the slightest hope...

It was of no matter now, the Warrior knew; if they had neglected the most important part of his words, then destiny would have its way.

He had said truthfully that this was the path fate had set, yet he hoped that they would know for themselves that it was not always the right one to follow.

By forgetting this, Ciánan had made himself the pawn of darker forces, and sealed in stone the fates of those connected with him.

* * *

**A/N: For those of you who are thinking that I've finally crossed the line- and I know you're thinking it- I say only:**

**No. **

**And fine, I promise no more ominous foreshadowing, for a while at least. Hmph. **


	5. Decisions

Snowstripe had fallen to all fours on the sand, crouching like a beaten, voiceless animal, utterly frozen with terror. His father advanced, eyes scarlet with Bloodwrath, pronouncing judgement in a roar so thunderous that it seemed to shake the earth. "You said yourself what you did; if it were not for you, my daughter would still be alive! I no longer call you my son, for no blood of mine would turn against its family, and I hereby exile you from Salamandastron. You have destroyed my mountain, my family, my heart itself..." He broke off, dropping his head, and some of the fury seemed to vanish from his voice, some of the crimson to fade from his blazing eyes.

"Father, I..." Snowstripe gasped, coughing for breath, yet in that same instant the Bloodwrath flared again; the great Badger Lord was once more made senseless with its urges.

_"Go!" _ he roared, raising a mighty paw over his son as though to smite him down with it. The young badger staggered to his footpaws, the tears that coursed down his muzzle stinging and clouding his eyes. Shaking from head to footpaws, made blind, deaf, and numb, Snowstripe stumbled backwards, and ran.

* * *

In an instant the Bloodwrath's fire departed, and as Russano's conscious mind stirred feebly, the realization of what he had just done struck him like lightning. He struggled up, crying out pitifully, his eyes rolling madly in his head, and collapsed face-down upon the shore. Behind him, near the base of the mountain, Lady Rosalaun knelt by her daughter's body, sobbing as though her heart would break. 

The hares rushed to comfort her, as others tried to rouse and aid Russano, but they could think of nothing to say. Rosalaun gradually fell silent, so grief-stricken and disbelieving that even the tears would no longer come. Now not even the seabirds called; the afternoon was as still and silent as the body of the Badger Lord, lying spread-eagled and motionless in the sand.

* * *

The stars were tiny, brilliant points against the infinite sweep of blue-black sky, and a waxing half-moon shed a vague silver light over the flatlands south of Salamandastron. Snowstripe lay still upon the ground, a dark shadow against the night, out of the moonlight's reach. The young badger's chest moved haltingly, painfully; each breath wheezed slowly out of his beaten lungs, just barely keeping him alive. He had passed out some time ago from sheer exhaustion and pain, and night had long since arrived. 

A small wind sprang up, whipping dust and grit across the flatlands and ruffling the short, sparse grass. Over its soft rush came the sound of chains, their harsh clanking loud, discordant, and sounding closer and closer each moment, but Snowstripe did not stir.

In a short time the slave line had come to a full halt, the manacled creatures standing motionless with heads bowed. Blood dripped from a few of the bent backs; they were no strangers to the whip, and were lashed frequently to keep them moving.

The slavemasters remained by their charges, flicking the sinew lashes now and again as a warning to keep silent, as the others of the tribe prowled up, cautiously circling the badger's prone form. They hissed and barked softly to one another; their tongue was low-pitched and rasping, yet melodious enough, not harsh or guttural. It was not a language often heard in Mossflower country, and nobeast passing by would have understood a word of it. None of them had ever seen such a creature, almost twice their size, with a stocky frame, short tail, and black-and-white face, and did not know what to make of him.

"Strange creature," one growled, his tail flicking uneasily, slitted eyes gleaming yellow in the dark.

"Silence," another hissed, "you wake it. Then 'twould take your head off, it should not need much effort to do that. Big enough to rip you in half, I should think."

"Shall we chain it?" the first replied, keeping his voice low.

The second nodded. "Methinks 'tis a strong working beast, young too. We will be honored for such a one." At this, both beasts let out deep, blissful sighs, bowing their heads almost reverently, their pale fur shining silver in the moonlight.

"Wake it first, or not?" one of the slavemasters asked, stepping forward with several of the strongest chains the band possessed.

"No," the first growled. "The other beasts are strong enough, and this one will be dead if we do not intervene. Let them move it, and when we stop next it shall be given water and food. Let us go far from here, closer to our return, before we wake it."

Snowstripe was swiftly made prisoner, chained arm and leg, with his footpaws manacled together so that he could not run. After some thought they chained his front paws together as well, taking no chances with a creature of his size.

"Cut it too," a third hissed, "so it will not be able to run without pain. Then 'twould not escape."

The first snarled, lashing out at the speaker. "No, idiot. Perhaps 'twill make a better sacrifice than work creature, and if that is so we shall all be punished for such a sacrilege. It is weak enough already. No need to lame it further."

The four beasts lifted Snowstripe up by the shoulders, dragging him swiftly over to the slave line. In the few words of the common tongue they had acquired from listening to their captives, they ordered them to take the young badger and carry him as best they could. With a harsh growl and a few cracks of the whip, the line moved onward, the slavers trotting on all sides, keenly surveying all.

The best the slaves could do was to drag Snowstripe over the ground as they walked, pulling his chain over their shoulders, and his fur, swiftly made ragged by the journey, was soon covered in dust and grime, his tongue lolling from his slack jaws as his head scraped along the earth. They had no sympathy for their fellow captive; he was merely another weight upon their backs, a further strain in their limbs, and soon he would be like them, a nameless animal beaten into silence by starvation, thirst, and the lash.

The slave line moved onward through the still, cool night, the sound of their chains rapidly fading into silence. A long trail in the dust of the flatlands, revealed by the pale moonlight, was all that remained of where Snowstripe had been.

* * *

Russano sat with his head buried in his paws, his shoulders shaking with grief. Rosalaun was seated at the other end of the table, her eyes averted to avoid looking at her mate. Anxious hares attended both, and those around the Badger Lady had been in conference with her for some time. 

"Are you sure, m'lady?" one whispered.

She nodded, and raised her head. "Russano," she said, her voice still choked slightly with grief, but steady. "I have made my decision."

The Badger Lord looked up, gazing at her through red-rimmed eyes. "Rosalaun?" he whispered. "I... he... Melanius..."

"You were wrong to exile our son. I know what he did was an accident- _I know it!_" she cried out angrily, slamming her paw down upon the table. She took a deep, shaking breath, and spoke again. "I hold equal power to you, Russano the Wise, and seeing you broken here, hearing that the Bloodwrath seized you, the most gentle and knowing of badgers... I know that I must make the decisions for now.

"I have some faith yet in our family, despite this terrible day, and I believe that you will recover. But we must find our son and bring him back, or we are lost. A child should never be torn from its parent, and never torn away _by _its parent. So I am organizing our Long Patrol into troops, one of which I will lead, and we will bring Snowstripe back to our mountain."

Russano shook his head slowly. "No... I must go with you. 'Twas my fault, and 'tis me who must bear the blame. I must find my son."

Rosalaun stood, looking down into her husband's dazed and tired eyes. "You will stay, and you will heal yourself. Snowstripe has run from you, as you ordered; but a mother will never turn her child away. He will not run from me. We will leave at dawn, but first I must attend to my daughter's burial."

Turning away, she called, "Colonel? Organize the patrols, and decide who will stay. We should leave a score or so to take care of my husband..." She strode out of the room, still talking, and the Badger Lord was left alone.

Russano the Wise stared, unseeing, into the lantern light, tears trickling slowly down his muzzle. His dark eyes were dulled with sorrow, his breathing harsh and laboured; he felt as though his heart had been torn, beating, from his chest.

* * *

**A/N: Finally got to upload this. The servers were being absolutely impossible. Bloody Pit, there's no relying on it at all... (more dour mumbling) **

**I'm really a bit touched by how much people adore this; it shows I've improved, I think, since my first venture or two. Hopefully 'twill turn out well. (bows) **

* * *


	6. Daggers and Chains

Ciánan stood, trembling, in front of the tapestry, the center of a torrent of noise; confused shouting, angry yells, everybeast trying to talk over one another and all of it mingling chaotically. Floburt looked even more terrified; it was she who had caused the mad debating, and was now besieged from all sides.

"What in the world do you mean? He's-"

"How could you possibly-"

"Martin could never have-"

"Quiet!" Deyna's stentorian roar cut across the competing voices like thunder; all present started and hunched their shoulders guiltily, as though to ward off the Champion's displeasure. The otter's lip was curled in anger, showing his strong teeth, as he glared around at the assembly.

"How can you twist our Warrior's words in such a way? I had the same dream; I know of what Ciánan speaks. Among other things, which I shall relate later if you can show some proper Abbey conduct, he said that our weasel would 'follow the way of the blade.' I do not know if Floburt is right, but that is still no reason to attack her for making a guess! Here," he said suddenly, striding over to the wall where the tapestry hung, "Martin has guided me enough to let me know how we can tell."

Taking the blade from where it rested, Deyna drew Ciánan to him and placed Martin's sword in the young weasel's paws, wrapping them around the black-bound hilt. Ciánan's eyes gleamed with surprise and shock, with added wonder as his paw slowly caressed the red pommel stone. He was not a powerfully built creature, and his arms shook slightly under the weight of the sword.

He held it aloft for a moment or two more before the effort seemed to be too much, and he offered it back to the otter, shaking his head slowly. "No..." he whispered, so softly that only Deyna heard him clearly. "It just... felt wrong in my grip, in my paws."

The Champion nodded. "You do not feel as I do, how the other Abbey Warriors felt before me. I feel as though the sword is a part of me when I battle, as though Martin's spirit flows into me, his strength added to mine. You shall not be the next Champion, I am sorry, Ciánan."

The weasel grinned slightly, but his face soon turned solemn again, dark with confusion. "I can't get his words out of my head, though. Blades, the way of the blade..." He swayed slightly from side to side. "I don't feel whole somehow... it's like you said, Deyna, but not with the sword. Are there any other blades in this Abbey?"

Deyna shook his head for a moment, then paused, his eyes lighting up. "I don't think... Wait!" The powerful otter turned and bounded out of Great Hall; Abbeybeasts scattered to get out of his way. In a short time he had returned, scarcely out of breath and afire with a growing excitement.

Ciánan gasped audibly as the Champion placed the blade in his paws. It was a wonder such as he had never seen; in his eyes, it far outshone the Abbey sword. "Yes..." he whispered, turning it over and over in his paws, running a claw along the bright steel blade.

His gaze was feverish as he stared up at the otter, their eyes locking. "Where did you find this?"

The otter turned his head away, gazing out of the window, his face dark and brooding. When he spoke at last, his tone was quiet, almost sorrowful. " Rukky Garge returned it to me when I had healed; the wonderful old otterlady refused to accept Skipper's payment, though she saved my life. It is the blade of Sawney Rath, the Juska chieftain who murdered my father and took me in as his son, the chosen Taggerung." There was almost a sardonic laugh in his voice as he mentioned the Juska, and several of those listening felt a chill run down their backs. "He had a great skill with knives, yet he never hesitated to kill. Anybeast who displeased him in the slightest would soon find that beautiful thing in their throat."

He looked back at Ciánan once more, his eyes shadowed with worry. "I hope you will not turn out like him. But Martin would never have guided it to you if you were to become a common murderer, nor, I think, appeared to you at all."

The young weasel was smiling, however, his grin radiant with pure joy as he stared at the knife once more. The sapphire, sparkling from the amber hilt, reflected the sunlight so skillfully it almost seemed to make Ciánan's eyes glow blue.

"A trick of the light..." Deyna murmured under his breath, not even realizing he spoke, though nobeast heard him. "Just a trick of the light..."

* * *

Snowstripe awoke gradually, yet gasped in agony from his first flicker of awareness. Every bone in his body felt as though it had been jarred from its place, and the manacles bit mercilessly deep into fur, hide, and flesh. There was searing heat and brilliant light all around him, so that he thought for one irrational moment he'd landed in the middle of the sun. Something cool and wet, however, was trickling down his face, dripping into his eyes and mouth, making him blink, cough, and struggle to sit up. 

"Awake, then, are ya?" a rough voice snarled from above him. The young badger blinked, then yelped as the lean, narrow face of a stoat swam into view. He drew back the skin of water he'd been dripping over Snowstripe's face, but remained kneeling; the badger saw that his waker was chained at the ankles and moving would be rather difficult. Behind the stoat, he could see other crouching beasts, shackled as well; a skinny otter, a young rat, a squirrel, what looked like a ferret or weasel.

Snowstripe tried to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse, grating rasp; the stoat snorted derisively and splashed some more water in the general direction of his mouth. "Yer gonna whine, do it so they c'n hear ya," he growled. The young badger spluttered and snorted, but got some of the liquid down his throat. He swallowed and tried again; the result was still rough, but audible.

"Wh.. wha's goin' on? Where am I? Why are we both-" He said no more, and his vision danced wildly as the stoat gave him a sharp whack on the side of the head.

"That's enough, stripecub," he interrupted. "We're slaves, captives, you 'n me both. These crazy little bleeders don't give a damn who they chains up," and he jerked a filthy, ragged claw over his shoulder. Snowstripe strained to raise his aching head, and with his sight still blurred and reeling, managed to make out several smallish, pale shapes moving about.

He heard them speak, too, though nothing they said made the least bit of sense. Over their strange language, though, the stoat was still talking. "And don't yer even think this'll mean some blossomin' friendship 'twixt us in our moot-cher-ull despair, badgerey, 'cause if it's save yer or get meself out of this 'ell'ole, I'll rip yer limb from limb soon as look at 'cha."

"Vermin..." Snowstripe muttered, returning the stoat's glare as best he could, and receiving another, harder blow to the head.

" 'Eard that," the stoat hissed, but fell immediately silent as one of the pale creatures padded up, flicking a long whip over both their heads. The young badger stared blankly up at it, dazed by anger and utterly bewildered.

It was a smallish, tawny-furred fox, with a long, thick brush and almost comically large ears, though there was nothing amusing about the savage glint in his eyes, nor the lash now held coiled in one slender paw. When he spoke, it was evident he found the words difficult to form; his speech was slow, gruff, and halting, far removed from the eloquence with which he used his native tongue.

"Not talk dat beast. Wa-ter for keep alive, not talk. Move we soon, 'rrive soon. He walk he now. Not you pull he."

He cracked the whip across the stoat's bent back to make his point, causing the skinny creature to wince and bare his yellowed fangs, then strode off again.

"What kind of fox is that?" Snowstripe whispered when his captor had left; the stoat merely glared as he stood, yanking on the running chain to get the badger on his footpaws. Snowstripe stumbled up, unable to suppress a cry of pain. Tears trickled down his muzzle, but soon dried away in the scorching heat.

"Desert fox, that'n," the stoat muttered, "an' like I says, they're mad little brushtails. Now shut up, you, an' get marchin'. Whingin' ain't gonna get yer nowheres, an' if yer gonna ask, I ain't gotta clue in all bloody 'Ellgates where they're bringin' us."

He turned away and hauled the chain over his shoulder again, almost sending Snowstripe crashing to the sand before the young badger recovered his footing and stumbled on, his head lowered against the blazing sun. _This must be the southern deserts,_ he thought, shuddering as the shriek of some great bird rent the air.

On they moved, to the singing of the lash, the moans of the slaves, and the strange, whispered language of their masters, the desert foxes. Ever farther into the arid wastes of the south.

* * *

**A/N: And so, some of the aura of mystique is broken. Just for reference, the "desert foxes" are basically like real-life Rueppell's foxes, also called sand foxes. They're found from Morocco to around Afghanistan; therefore their language here is probably a lot like some exceedingly obscure Middle Eastern dialect.**

**They were going to be more like fennecs, but those are so hilariously adorable, with their little cuddly bodies and absolutely huge ears, that they weren't the best idea. (Things that make the author squee and want to hug it till it pops do not good antagonists make.)**

**Rueppell's foxes are still a little smaller than red foxes, though, and still have larger ears and light fur, which are adaptations for living in arid climates.**

**/animal geek rant**

**So no, Awsomewriter123, they're not lizards. xD**

**(You don't want to know how long this took to upload. Hellfire and a pox on the Pit and its lousy servers, which turn on you just when you've got it going.)**


	7. The Mountain

Rosalaun's voice soared out into the day as the Badger Lady stood before the Long Patrol, confident and authoritative, her tones devoid of any sob or tremor. One would not have guessed that not long before, she had stood deep under Salamandastron, in the vault where Melanius had been laid to rest, and had barely been able to speak for weeping.

"The wind has erased my son's tracks from the sand," she called, "and I did not see him run." She paused briefly, clenching one paw in a sudden convulsion, then continued. "We have a thousand fighting hares at our disposal; therefore I shall divide you thus: Threescore shall remain here, to help guard the mountain, though these are times of peace since the Juska were chased away. The rest shall form smaller patrols, with more or less than a score in each, and you will fan out in all directions from the mountain. If at any time two groups should meet with each other, you are trade information, then continue, or, if 'tis more prudent under the circumstances, combine forces. "

Standing at attention, headfur and long ears rippling slightly in the breeze, the massed ranks of hares nodded as one. Rosalaun bowed her head to them, murmuring her gratitude, then spoke again. "I will lead the largest of the patrols myself, in hopes that our search will be accomplished all the faster."

A colonel raised his paw, and the Lady nodded at him to speak. "Ahem, so I am to take it that 'Is Nibs Russano shall not be able to come, m'lady?"

Rosalaun sighed deeply. "Yes, Colonel. He is totally consumed with grief, and wracked also by guilt at his blind rage. I would stay and care for him under other circumstances, but I _must _find my son. I... I cannot risk losing both my children. If it means I cannot stay safe in the mountain like a proper Lady and stay by my husband's sickbed, then... then so be it." Her voice broke slightly, and she drew in a deep, shuddering breath, passing a paw over her eyes. She rallied in the next instant, and several hares shrank and looked away from the intensity of her gaze as she strode among them, dividing them into groups with effortless speed. Several higher officers aided her briefly in deciding every now and then, but generally she was obeyed without question.

In less than three hours' time, provisions had been organized, strategies decided on, all final preparations for armaments made. Rosalaun excused herself briefly, and returned with Russano at her side. The great badger's head was bent; one mighty paw gripped his hardwood stick so tightly it was in danger of snapping. His voice was hoarse and distorted with sorrow, and barely above a whisper, yet everybeast had fallen so completely silent that it was no great effort to hear him.

"I made a great mistake," the Badger Lord said softly, "and if possible, I ask you to forgive. Shock and sorrow drove me mad, and a terrible madness it was; I hope I never feel that again in all my seasons. I wanted... so furious... wanted almost to kill..." He broke off, gasping softly for breath.

Rosalaun drew him to her, trying to speak, but unable to find the words. Finally she gave him a gentle kiss on his forehead, and turned away, shouldering the pike she had taken from the armory. "Patrols, you know your orders!" she cried. "Officers, rally your troops and stand to attention!" Striding powerfully forward, she stopped at the head of her chosen patrol, valiantly brushing the tears from her eyes. "On my word... _move out!" _

The sound of marching paws echoed and re-echoed through the air as the Long Patrol dispersed; a resolute military drum-beat that sent hope thrilling through Rosalaun's heart. "South!" she cried on a sudden, inexplicable impulse, and as her patrol wheeled and followed with her at the head, she felt boundless strength in her paws. The Badger Lady was fired with determination, forcing all thoughts of her shattered family from her mind as she marched off over the flatlands, her heart beating to the marching song of the hares and the soft thunder of their paws on the earth.

"I will find my son," she whispered fiercely, "and let the might of the ancient Lords run like fire in my veins, let the wind give speed to my paws and the mountain give strength to my heart. _I will find my son!"_

* * *

Snowstripe was never aware of how long it had been before he had awakened, but they marched for a further week or more in the desert, traveling night and day, with the shortest of rests only during the most unbearable heat. The dazed young badger could barely remember a time when the sun did not beat on his head, when the lash did not descend on his back if he tripped or fell, when adequate shade, food, and drink were not mere spectral memories of a dreamlike past.

Through it all he endured the cynical abuse of the stoat, the stony, apathetic silence of the other slaves, who were of any and all species- a young rat, a skinny otter, squirrel, vole, ferret- and the ferocious demands of the desert foxes, who seemed driven by some great inner purpose. Snowstripe was still totally ignorant of their language, though he could now almost distinguish one sound from another, and recognize commands when they were given in both tongues. Yet he had the strangest sense, watching them confer in soft, rushed voices, that they were discussing their orders; that they were not slavers by their own choosing. When he had time or ability to think, aside from his grief, it was the main thing on his mind: What were they doing, and where were they taking this strange mix of creatures?

As the burning sun rose and fell in the sky, as day after hellish day slipped into the cool of night and back again, as he slowly grew numb to the heat, the lash, and the endless marching, the question slowly ceased to bother him.

* * *

Sawney Rath's knife was a whirl of bright steel, a silver blur with a glint of amber pommel and sapphire stone, a deadly flicker that almost seemed to cleave the air in its path as it whirred across the open space and thudded deep into the trunk of an oak. Ciánan's audience, namely everybeast in the Abbey interested in the unfolding puzzle, clapped and cheered wildly as the young weasel bounded over and retrieved his blade, bowing theatrically as he pulled it free. He showed a remarkable skill in knife-throwing, and had hit without fail every target presented to him.

Ciánan felt a warm glow of pride and ecstasy inside him, a wonderful thing that had not ceased since the knife had first been placed in his paws. The sun, the ever-present and delicious food, and his beautiful surroundings only added to his euphoria as he talked cheerily with his admirers, yet something had long been nagging at him, something that had been present even before he had arrived at the Abbey; now he knew that it was time to tell somebeast about it.

Deyna willingly left the lunch tables set in the orchard when Ciánan approached him, on the pretense that they would take a walk around the Abbey pond. Once they had sat down together by the edge of the reeds, out of sight of any curious eyes, the Champion noticed a swift change in the young weasel's demeanor. He was nervous, almost twitchy; his paw ran up and down the knife sheathed at his side.

"I... I have to tell you something," he said finally. "That dream I had... it wasn't the first strange thing. Even before I was saved from the flood, almost every night I've dreamed about a mountain, a great ancient thing by the sea, and I've never felt anything as strongly as the need to go there. There's something... something there I've got to do. I can't explain it; it's hard to keep my mind fixed on it, really, but lately I've been feeling it when I'm awake, too."

_And when I got this pendant from the mole-cub and when you gave me this knife, I couldn't breathe for sheer longing, _he added silently, for Deyna's gaze was shocked enough, and he did not wish to let them know of his treasure... it would... it would get the mole in trouble, yes, that was it, and some part of his mind gave a quiet sigh of relief.

"Salamandastron," the otter murmured. "That's the strangest thing I've ever heard, for a... for somebeast like you to have dreams of it. Usually only badgers do, and somehow I don't really think you're destined to rule it like they are."

Ciánan smiled as well, nodding. "No, you're right, Deyna, that's not what I feel, though I know I must go there. But stripedo- badgers have never been too friendly with my kind, y'might say- what if they refuse me entrance or kill me?" His smile no longer reached his eyes; they were dark and troubled, their merry glint long vanished.

Deyna gave him a gentle, reassuring pat on the shoulder, though the young weasel could feel the strength in the sinewy paw. "You will have nothing to fear; you are good enough to live at Redwall, are you not? And the Badger Lord, Russano the Wise, is the most kind and gentle creature ever to rule Salamandastron- that's the mountain," he added to forestall any confusion, but Ciánan merely nodded, as though he already knew.

His happiness swiftly returning, the weasel stood and grinned once more, thanking the Champion profusely. "Now," he said softly, "I must go and tell your Abbess something. Please come with me," and with that he turned and headed back toward the orchard, the knifeblade gleaming brilliantly in the sunlight.

They returned to see the Abbeybeasts waiting for them, yet the atmosphere was markedly different, with a tension that had not been there previously; several stood with lowered brows and folded arms, and looked angrily upon Ciánan. Then Sister Alkanet, her lips characteristically pursed and the old icy glare back in her stern eyes, spoke up. "We think it was a mistake to give him that knife. No weapons save Martin's sword are allowed in this Abbey, and frankly, despite the claim of innocence he's upheld, he's so obsessed with it that it's beginning to worry me!" A few others muttered assent, though most looked concerned, and towards the back the molebabe Wurfen began to whimper piteously. Deyna stepped forward, his fury evident, and likewise Abbess Mhera emerged from the crowd with a look like thunder, but Ciánan's soft voice stopped them both in their tracks.

"The Sister doesn't have to worry," he said. "I'm grateful to all of you for saving my life and giving me shelter here, but I think this is the right time for me to leave. This is going t' sound strange, but I... I no longer need Redwall."

In the stunned silence that followed, as Mhera and Filorn's eyes widened with shock, as Deyna, recalling their conversation, nodded slowly, Wurfen began to cry.

* * *

**A/N: The way I had to write this last part annoys me- it seems too much like the Redwallers are being stereotypically prejudiced. Damn and blast it all (but at least I could finally finish this and upload, by using two different Internet browsers at once) Concrit welcome. **

**Oh, and this is just a formatting thing, but I've changed my mind. I was going to have chapters alternately show the different stories- one for Ciánan, then one for Snowstripe and his parents. But I don't write insanely long chapters, so I think I'll just keep switching between scenes (at the most inopportune moments, of course- heh heh) per chapter. **


	8. Fate's Decree

The slave line trailed on through the vast southern deserts, all but unchanging. There were no suitable captives to be had; besides the foxes, who seemed thoroughly at home, the wastelands' only inhabitants were insects, tiny, scurrying lizards, strange and aggressive mouse- or rat-like creatures that the foxes readily killed for food, and the huge birds of prey that constantly circled in the cloudless sky. Two or three of the weaker slaves had already perished; their bodies had been quickly unchained, stripped of anything salvageable, and left to rot in the sun. The desert foxes were becoming increasingly demanding and savage, setting the daily pace faster and faster, using the lash at the slightest provocation.

It was a few hours after they had halted at one of the rare oases, though this was no lush, tree-lined pool; merely a medium-sized fissure in the ground where a tiny spring bubbled to the surface, though the water mostly evaporated almost as soon as it met the searing heat. Now the march had begun again, with Snowstripe trudging, as usual, at the very back of the line. The young badger was feeling light-headed and curiously detached; he felt himself moving, barely registered the weight of the chains and the pain of his scars, but his mind seemed remote from his body, as though he watched himself from a dream.

Then, suddenly, the foxes cried out as one, throwing their paws in the air and howling in joyous tones that rose and fell like song. The slaves were urged forward with sharp commands, and Snowstripe obediently fell into a sluggish, stumbling run along with the rest. As they crested a slight rise in the land, the territory of the desert foxes came into view.

It was a low, mostly flat stretch of sand, like much of what they had crossed through, but dotted with large rocks, sparse vegetation, and what were apparently holes excavated in the earth. It was not any of this, however, which made the slaves gasp and stare in dazed confusion, for directly in front of them a large, ornate building reared up from the flatlands, and even as they looked, they were being driven towards it.

It was constructed of all kinds of wood, stone, and metal, and both outside and inside glittered with gold and shards of ruby and fire opal, inlaid expertly into the walls. The floor was sand, packed flat by innumerable treading paws, and there were no dividing walls; all was one large room, and in the center, raised up on a stone dais, was a glittering, currently occupied throne.

The slaves, with a clanking of chains, were made to halt before the dais and kneel with heads bowed; a fox kept careful watch on either side of the line. The others moved forward as one, pulling various objects from the large hide pouches lashed to their belts and placing them, with heads bent and paws outstretched around the dais; Snowstripe caught a glimpse of jewelry, precious stones, carved wood figures, and other things he could not identify.

How far over the world did these scavenging foxes roam, and to what did they sacrifice such vast amounts? Curiosity seized him, and, keeping his head carefully lowered, the young badger raised his eyes, and met with such shock and confusion that he very nearly fainted.

For, lounging casually in the throne and smirking at his devotees, who were chanting and singing in their strange language as they placed further treasure around his altar, his face marked heavily by green and yellow tattoos, was a large red fox.

* * *

Silence had fallen over the Abbey grounds. Wurfen had been quieted, though the little molebabe still snuffled and whimpered, his eyes filled with tears as he murmured, "Burr hurr, zurr Keenun be's moi mate, whoi duz 'e wanna leave oi?" 

Deyna stood, motionless, by Ciánan's side, silently fixing the assembly in his gaze. Sister Alkanet still glared sternly back at the pair, while some looked away, unwilling to meet the Champion's cold eyes or the weasel's quiet, enigmatic blue-grey stare. Most of the Abbeybeasts, however, merely seemed concerned, and were looking with confusion towards Ciánan, Deyna, or Abbess Mhera, who, as they watched, stepped gracefully out of the crowd, which parted to make way.

The Abbess stopped in front of Ciánan, laying a paw gently on his shoulder and glancing briefly at her brother, who nodded and gestured for her to continue. A shadow of doubt flickered across her features, but soon passed; her face was still so young, yet filled once more with her quiet, sensible wisdom. "Are you sure this is what you want, Ciánan?" she said softly. "Nobeast here shall force you to leave or stay, but if you do desire to remain, I feel that I must agree to the rules and the general will of our Abbey. The Sister is right; though I know you mean us no harm, we do not allow weapons within our walls unless danger threatens, and since the Juska were banished these have been times of peace."

The weasel's eyes flashed for an instant, and his paw tightened on the amber hilt. Mhera, seeing this, paused and waited for him to speak.

His voice was quiet, though tense and faintly impatient. "No, Abbess. I thank you for your kindness through all my time here, and I do not leave out of wanting to keep this blade. I just feel as... as though I must move on, as though there is something I must do. And it shall never be done here. I have to go to the mountain, whatever 'tis that awaits me there."

She watched him for a moment more, but he only nodded and inclined his head politely to her. "Very well, then," she said at length. "Must you leave today, or will-"

There was a harsh fervor in his voice as he cut her off, raising his eyes. "Yes," he said tightly, "today. As soon as I can." Then he paused, drawing in a deep breath, and hung his head apologetically, the fire vanishing from his eyes. "I'm sorry, Abbess," he said quietly. "I just..."

She smiled and patted him gently, saying, " 'Tis quite all right. I understand, you are impatient for adventure. Deyna's friend Nimbalo was the same when he stayed here; he was happy for a long time, but after a while the old urge to wander took hold of him."

Deyna nodded, grinning reminiscently. "He was an adventurous little fellow, sure enough, an' a great friend to all, nobeast better to have by your side in a fight. But he was restless here, as you said, and he left a little while before Ciánan came. Said he wanted to find his mother, see if she was still alive. He never really knew her growing up."

Ciánan nodded, not really listening, shifting from footpaw to footpaw as though anxious to run. "Thank you, Abbess," he answered, bowing stiffly, though she only laughed and motioned for him to rise before turning to face the crowd.

"Have you all heard friend Ciánan's decision?" she asked, and being met with nods and murmurs of assent all around, continued. Her eyes flickered with practiced ease over the assembly, and, moving one paw here and there to indicate those she wanted, she called, "Right then. Broggle, Mama, please go to the kitchens and fill a bag with provisions. Floburt, if you'd be so kind, find the linens and get another spare habit that will fit him, oh, and some sort of traveling cloak if there is one... Is there anything else you require for your journey?" she finished, turning back to face him.

The young weasel cocked his head to one side thoughtfully, pondering, then shook his head. "No, I think that will do. Thank you again, Abbess."

"Do you think we'd let you leave hungry?" Deyna laughed, giving Ciánan a friendly cuff about the shoulders. As the selected Abbeydwellers dispersed about their errands, others filed over to talk briefly with the weasel, offering advice and wishing him luck on his quest.

Then Wurfen raced forward, lurching wildly about on his stubby legs, and flung himself, crying, around Ciánan's ankles. The young weasel stumbled, tried to move, and fell flat on his back on the grass. The molebabe immediately clambered up and sat on his chest, still howling, "Burr hurr hurr, doan't ee goo 'way, zurr Keenun, doan't ee goo!"

Ciánan managed to sit up, and held the sobbing Dibbun in his arms, saying, "I have to, liddle mate, I'm sorry. It's what Martin said."

"Marthen be's a roight meen creetur, burr, for you be's moi pal," Wurfen grumbled mutinously through his tears, his little face so thunderous that Ciánan couldn't help laughing.

"Don't say that, liddle mate," he answered, ruffling the molebabe's velvety headfur as he often did, "for Martin will guide you someday too. We all have to answer t' our fate, 'tis like a tide or a great wind that sweeps us along in its course."

A shadow fell over the pair, and Filorn bent down next to them, smiling, though she winced slightly as she kneeled. Her fur was almost totally silver with the passing of the seasons, her old face deeply lined and her movements slow, though her dark eyes still twinkled. She placed a bulging pack on the grass next to Ciánan, causing Wurfen to start bawling anew.

The old ottermum reached deep into her habit pocket and announced, "Hold out your paw, Ciánan." Obediently, the young weasel stretched out his arm, and with slightly trembling claws, Filorn fastened a fine silver bracelet around his wrist.

With a kind smile, she released him, saying, "One of Skipper's ottercrew gave this to me when they visited, saying a beauty refined with age deserved pretty things. But I don't wear much of trinkets like this anymore. Take it, and let it remind you of Redwall." Ciánan raised his arm, admiring the present, and gave Filorn a gentle hug. "I'll do just that, and thank you once more for all your kindness. I will not forget what you and my other friends here have done for me."

* * *

Half an hour or so had passed, and the afternoon sun had slowly begun to sink in the sky as Ciánan, fully outfitted for his journey and having said his last good-byes to everybeast, walked slowly out of the Abbey gates and onto the path leading south.

He moved to face Redwall, with every creature gathered behind the now-closed doors to see him on his way, and drew his knife in a warrior's salute. They cheered him to the echo, and he grinned and bowed to them, his eyes gleaming in the sunlight, before turning away. His lean form was soon lost to sight among the trees, his shadow likewise obscured among the sun and shade dappling the well-trodden earth of the path.

He shed no tears, felt not the least bit of sorrow or indescision; he felt as though he blazed inside, as though in place of blood, fire ran through his body, giving him boundless strength. He threw Sawney Rath's knife into the air and caught it as he walked, feeling a sudden pride in his skill with the weapon as he watched its bright blade glimmer in the sunlight.

A strange power had risen in him from the first step south, and it roared through him now, until he felt so euphoric he laughed and laughed with sheer delight, sending startled birds spiraling up into the day.

* * *

**A/N: Told you those foxes were crazy little buggers. More about their idol next chapter. Here begins Ciánan's journey; the beginning of the end, if you will. **

**Oh, and a brief achnowledgement is to be made: Back at the Abbey, where Deyna mentions what happened to Nimbalo, is the suggestion of the lovely Jade TeaLeaf, whose ideas and happy discussions about books I appreciate. Just thought I'd add it in there. :)**


	9. The God and the Rabbit

_"Jamadagni! Jamadagni! Ha'taheena a'riyaa kol riata ta'shemana ri'kol filaaaa..."_

The song of the desert foxes resounded off the glimmering walls of the temple, an eerie, howling chant with a melody and words like nothing Snowstripe had ever heard, and it sent chills running down his back.

_"Jamadagni! Jamadagni! Bahal-a riyaa atash ki shena-ta a'ryia himaaaa..."_

From his lavish throne, the red fox watched them kneel before him, chuckling softly and waving a paw as though mockingly conducting their chant.

He was a tall, powerful creature, dressed in a simple hide kilt, though besides his elaborate tattoos, his brow, ankles, wrists, and brush were heavily ornamented with jewels, gold, and bone. All of it, as well as his immaculately groomed pelt, shone brilliantly in the light of the temple's lines of torches and the fire pit behind his throne. Snowstripe felt sweat trickling down his brow; even compared to the desert, the room was stiflingly hot, and the other slaves were suffering equally.

"Enough!"the red fox howled suddenly, his tones like thunder, and at his roar the flames seemed to leap a little higher. Every desert fox fell totally silent in an instant, prostrating themselves flat before the dais. Snowstripe, however, glanced up once more in shock, for the fox used the Mossflower common tongue, not the language of his worshippers.

The big creature spoke again, in a deep, theatrical voice evidently intended, and succeeding, to fill his devotees with fear and awe. "Jamadagni is pleased with your gifts and your slaves. Ye have done well, and as ye know I reward the pious greatly..."

He was looking down the line of captives as he talked, and when he got to Snowstripe his eyes widened in surprise. Then he laughed, baring his long fangs, and called out, using sweeping paw gestures to make his point clear.

"The rite is finished, and ye have appeased me and withheld my wrath. Now take these slaves and quarter them with the rest. Make sure they are cared for properly. All," and at this he pointed directly at the trembling badger, "except him."

* * *

The winds had begun around late afternoon, softly at first, then growing in power, till the smaller trees were lashed around wildly and leaf litter swirled in small drifts across the ground. At twilight the clouds had gathered, in dark, ominously thick banks on the horizon, and by nightfall the storm was well under way.

Under a rock overhang there gleamed a tiny, flickering point, all but invisible in the rain-lashed darkness; the light of a small fire. Ciánan sat huddled on the earth, thankful for the shelter of the huge stone slab. The young weasel shifted and fidgeted where he sat; he had been feeling restless and discontent ever since nightfall. At least, he knew, he was not lost; some inner compass, a heretofore unknown instinctive sense, told him he was on the right path. He drew the golden medallion from beneath his habit and held it in his paw, running a claw around the disk's engraved edge and admiring once more his treasure's beauty and shine.

All of a sudden he felt a surge of excitement, and stared intently out into the night, every sense on instant alert, the knife held ready in his paw. He was not to be disappointed; from outside there came a sudden gasping, stumbling, coughing sound, and a thin, nervous-looking rabbit staggered under the overhang.

The emaciated beast stared at him, its glassy eyes nearly bulging from its head with terror. Then it gave a low moan, and collapsed senseless upon the ground.

The rabbit soon regained consciousness, though still shaking from ears to ragged bobtail, and its chest heaved wildly with panic. "Hush, friend," Ciánan said softly, placing a flagon and an oatcake from his pack before the rabbit and draping his cloak around its convulsing shoulders.

Gradually the skinny creature fell still, taking a tentative nibble from the oatcake, never once taking its frightened eyes off of Ciánan. It made several soft, incoherent noises deep in its throat, wheezed softly, and said, stammering, "Y...you... help... me?"

The young weasel smiled gently. "Of course I help you. How did you come to be out alone in such weather, friend? 'Tis a dangerous night out there. Come closer to the fire and warm yourself."

The rabbit stared fearfully at him again, though it moved a tiny bit closer towards the low, dancing flames as it spoke. "Was a sailor... ship... attacked by Cor...corsairs. Sank, everyone else dr...drowned. I.. washed up... on sh...shore... lost... for... for days... starving, cold, storm came... you help me?" it said again, still sounding doubtful of the fact.

Ciánan's voice was calm and soothing. "Yes, I will help you. Stay here for the night, or at least till the storm dies down." He laid his knife down on the earth and extended his paws in a gesture of friendship; shaking again, the rabbit grasped them tightly, whispering a choked thanks.

"Think nothing of it," the young weasel murmured. "I lived at a place called Redwall, where nobeast pauses to give help to those in need..." He shuddered suddenly, his words trailing away, and the rabbit scooted back again as Ciánan's eyes gleamed in the firelight.

He drew in a deep breath and shook his head, picking up the flagon and offering it to the rabbit, who seized it faster than blinking and closed its eyes, drinking deeply. When it had swallowed and opened its eyes again, its fears seemed assuaged. It picked up the oatcake and started to eat more voraciously, smiling gratefully at its host, who sat peacefully still opposite, poking at the flames with a long stick.

His paw inched slowly over the earth, clasped around the amber pommel, and the rabbit took no notice, still munching away. As he shifted his grasp so that he held the knife by its bright steel blade, its head flicked up, watching him questioningly. Its jaws worked slowly once or twice more, then stopped, its limbs beginning to quiver again.

Ciánan's smile was tender, solicitious, his gleaming blue-gray eyes wide and innocent, devoid of malice or cunning, as Sawney Rath's blade left his paw and met its mark squarely in the rabbit's skinny chest.

* * *

The desert foxes had been ordered from the temple, sent off on various menial tasks, though it was doubtful they completely understood the language of their idol. Snowstripe had been freed from the running chain, though the manacles on his ankles and paws remained, and he crouched before the dais, filled with confusion and a growing fear as the red fox grinned down at him and spoke again.

"Tremble ye in fear, mortal stripedog, _for I am Jamadagni! "_ The last few words were delivered in a deep-throated howl, and once more the flames of the encircling torches seemed to burn hotter and brighter at his words. Snowstripe, trembling, had just bowed his head, not knowing what else to do, when the great tattooed beast burst into laughter, roaring with merriment till tears ran down his muzzle.

"Aye," he choked out at last, "I, a humble Juskabor, Jamadagni the fire god!" He could not speak for laughing after that, but eventually continued, explaining as though Snowstripe had merely asked a question, "It's because of my red fur, y' see. They think I've eaten fire ter make it that color, a thing mortal creatures simply ain't able ter do. Quite amazin', really, how fast they constructed this temple in my honor. But a god c'n always count on 'is followers," and with this he chuckled again.

The young badger raised his head, staring harder at Jamadagni's tattooed face, and saw that it was carefully patterned; a yellow circle on either cheek, with green wavy lines across the brow, lending a barbaric effect to the long, clever face. Together with what the fox had said, something his father had once told him a season or two ago entered his mind, when he had overheard the word "Juska" in a conversation, and being naturally inquisitive, had asked further.

_"Juska are a kind of organized vermin band,"_ Russano had said,_"with many rules and codes, though that doesn't make them any less dangerous or evil. Each one has a strong leader, who uses their name to identify the clan, and they each have a unique tattoo design to tell one clan from another. Now, to the south, there's a huge clan called the Juskabor, and Ruggan Bor, their leader, is a fearsome creature and a deadly fighter. We've heard he's on the move, and who knows, with such a large horde he may set his eyes on Salamandastron..."_

"J...Juskabor?" Snowstripe whispered, and the grinning Jamadagni nodded.

"Aye, liddle stripey, Juskabor. I'm one o' them, or used ter be. Now lemme tell yer a story, about how the great an' terrible fire god -that's me- came ter this sandy 'ell-hole of a place.

"Now, Ruggan Bor were a great an' powerful leader, big golden fox an' more dangerous than an adder wid that sabre o' his. He'd always led us right in the past- food, plunder, killin's, wotever we wanted. Then we started movin' north when 'e heard tell of the Taggerung, an unbeatable warrior, 'avin been born. Funny thing, though, 'twas a riverdog, an' belongin' to a clan called the Juskarath, which we later conquered anyways. But that ain't important as of now, so let's move along, eh?

"So after a long trek 'n much adventurin', we reach a place name of Red'all or summat. We're about to attack, right, when up an' comes this stripedog, bloody huge beast 'e were, an' about fiftyscore armed longears." Snowstripe began to notice a change in the fox's demeanor; as he continued his tale now, his voice was growing harsh with anger, and his paws savagely clenched the arms of the throne.

"Now this 'ere stripedog don't even 'ave a weapon, just this liddle piece o' wood, and apart from 'is size 'e ain't even terrifyin, just stood there an' ordered us down on the ground like worms calmly as yer please! Then- somethin' wrong, liddle badger?" he inquired, for Snowstripe had drawn in a sharp breath; _his father had told him of the Juskabor's defeat!_ What did this fox plan? He must tread carefully, he knew, though remembering his family brought a sharper pain.

"N...n...nothing," he stammered, and the fox, satisfied, resumed, though his tone was now more of a snarl. "An 'ere's the worst part, liddle 'un. The great an' savage Ruggan Bor, almighty leader of our fearsome clan, just sat there an' took it! Dropped 'is weapon and cringed on 'is knees, whimperin' like a babe! Tell me if yer think that's worthy of a Juska leader," he growled, and Snowstripe hurriedly shook his head.

"Exactly. Yer a smart one, ye are," and he chuckled again. "Now I'll tell yer why yer 'ere, but first yer gotta tell me who ye are. I told yer my story, didn't I? M' name's Lyulf, by th' by," he added, "yer don't gotta address me by my divine title as of now. Now, 'ow about it, liddle stripey?"

The young badger swallowed and muttered hoarsely, "S...S...Snowstripe."

Lyulf nodded, and said encouragingly, "An' where ya from that my followers found yer, Snowy me lad?" When Snowstripe nervously lowered his head and said nothing, the fox warningly growled out, "Yer only in 'ere at my bidding, mind, an one stripedog more or less don't bother me none. Damn buzzards out 'ere are always starvin'."

Snowstripe felt a sudden flash of anger run through him; this Juska vermin had no right to treat him, the heir to Salamandastron, like some disobedient pet! The young badger snarled back at Lyulf, baring his teeth. "I am the son of Russano the Wise, Lord of Salamandastron, and 'twas my father who defeated your entire mangy clan!"

Then the reality of what he had just given away sunk in, and, feeling sick with horror, Snowstripe collapsed face-down against the dais as the red fox laughed triumphantly.

Lyulf, once he had calmed down, gave a sharp whistle, and a desert fox raced in and flung himself on the ground, his paws outstretched, whispering reverently, _"Jamadagni!"_

"Rise, loyal one," the red fox said impressively, then, with much gesturing, spoke slowly and carefully, as though to a small cub. "Take... this slave... to the quarters with the rest. Make sure... he is cared for. More food and drink... than... the others." When the fox looked up questioningly, Lyulf rolled his eyes in exasperation and repeated himself, this time remembering to use a few words in the desert creature's own tongue. His subject nodded, waited for the motion to rise, and hurried Snowstripe out of the temple.

Once both had gone, Lyulf stretched out in his throne, pulling off some of his weighty jewelry. A huge grin spread slowly across his muzzle as the big fox muttered to himself, "Hah, 'is son an' all? That'll do perfect... I'll show that big-talkin' coward Bor 'ow yer kill a stripedog!"

* * *

**A/N: I'm happy I got to introduce Lyulf. He amuses me. I started to wonder what the Juskabor must have thought after Russano banished them, and this kind of just invented itself.**

**Oh, and in case anyone is wondering, the desert foxes' chant? _Not _a real language.**


	10. Confusion

The sapphire glittered brilliantly in the low, smoky light of the flames, casting a faint blue glow on the amber pommel and blood-splashed steel blade. The knife had been buried to the hilt in the chest of the rabbit before he pulled it out, and Ciánan had not been staring long at the deep wound in the mangy tawny-white fur, and at the blood dripping slowly from the keen, bright edge of the dagger, before his insides began to roil and he turned away, retching violently.

He collapsed to the ground, flinging the knife against the rock slab that formed the back wall of the shelter, his head spinning, his senses choked with horror and the sour smell of bile, the latter of which only further nauseated him.

Familiar faces swam, half-real, before his reeling vision, blurred by the hot tears that stung his eyes. Deyna, Filorn, Wurfen the molebabe, all the creatures who had been kind and loving to him at Redwall. What he had just done scarcely seemed real. He had killed, murdered in cold blood an innocent, starving creature, and for what, why, why, _why... _He did not know that he sobbed the last word aloud in a strangled voice, but as he fell into sudden convulsions the feeble cry died away.

Then it was as though fire had roared up through his churning stomach and spread through his blood, through every nerve in his body, and with its calming heat his writhing body soon stilled. The stench of his sickness faded, as did the visions of his friends, and he smelled the brine of the ocean, saw a darkened chamber deep within a mountain and the glitter of silver, gold, precious stones, with a massive, armoured skeleton presiding over all. Wild laughter, almost obscene in its throes of manic ecstasy, rang in Ciánan's ears.

He opened his eyes to find that his queasiness had ceased, and as he sat up and stretched hesitantly, the young weasel found that he felt perfectly calm- proud, even. He went over to where the knife lay on the earth and wiped it clean across his habit, unperturbed by the dark, dust-flecked smear it left across the coarse green fabric, before moving over to the corpse of the rabbit.

In the adequate light of the flames and the first hint of the oncoming dawn, Ciánan carefully skinned his victim, as surely and methodically as if he had been practising for years. Over the next week or so, he worked at drying and tanning the pelt, his mind perfectly blank and calm. Likewise, he felt not the least aversion to butchering the carcass; food was food, and, after all, the Abbey supplies would not sustain him forever. Some of the meat he cured, dried, and saved for a later date; the rest he ate while he worked. On the whole, it was tough and rather stringy, but the weasel felt it was one of the best things he had ever tasted.

When finished at last, Ciánan was pleased at how his pelt had turned out, though he had hoped it would make enough for a garment; more fur would have to be procured from somewhere. Until then, he saved the dried sinew for thread, and spent the better part of an afternoon painstakingly crafting a bone needle. The young weasel smiled as he recalled the day Filorn, for lack of Dibbun pupils, had insisted he learn how to sew, and how he had complained throughout that it would never be of any use. When this crossed his mind, however, he cringed, waiting for the nausea to surge in his stomach and throat. In the past few days, whenever he had thought of Redwall he still felt sick with guilt.

This time, though, no such thing came; the memory merely made him chuckle with its irony. In any case, the needle was finished and he was tired of remaining under the overhang; rising, he packed the rabbit skin and his needle into his knapsack and extinguished the smoldering remnants of last night's fire. Taking a last look at his shelter, Ciánan turned away and walked off into the sunlit forest, and though it was still miles away, the scent of the ocean once more filled his nostrils.

The young weasel had barely gone a few paces when he heard shouting, mingled with snarls and clashing blades, among the trees.

* * *

Snowstripe took deep breaths of the heated air, this time panting more from sheer relief than the stifling temperatures. Never had he thought that he would ever prefer the desert surface to being underground, where the sun was less intense; and, having ceaselessly explored Salamandastron almost top to bottom, he was not afraid of the darkness, nor of the sheer weight of earth above. It was being underground _there, _in that deep hole, surrounded by impassive, dull-eyed slaves, the smoky light and faintly rancid stench of the animal-fat torches pervading over it all, that had nearly driven him to panic.

The hiss and thud of arrows filled his ears; blinking against the harsh sunlight, he squinted to make out the pale forms of the desert foxes as they loosed bolt after bolt at their wooden targets. Lyulf stood close by, issuing commands and watching every move, praising or snarling at his subjects as the situation warranted.

The young badger had almost given up trying to talk or make friends among his fellow captives; though he was desperate for companionship, almost crushed by guilt, sorrow, and homesickness, they gave him only apathetic silence or the occasional bitter jibe at his softness. But now he tried once more, this time hoping to rouse a response from the closest creature to him, a ragged-looking squirrel with dull brown fur. "Why are we out here, watching the foxes play at archery?" he whispered.

The skinny creature turned his head, giving Snowstripe a baleful stare. "Why d'you think I'd know? I came here on the same march you did. But they sure aren't playing, badger, or the big red hellhound wouldn't be watching 'em so closely. Look out!"

This last was a sharp hiss, as the squirrel snapped his head around to stare blankly ahead; Lyulf had given a sharp, short howl. As one, the desert foxes laid down their weapons, retrieved the arrows from the targets, and replaced them near each bow in neat piles. Moving forward, they took the manacles from the slaves' paws, leaving them bound together at the leg by the running chain, and led them over to the archery range. They were silent throughout, completing the tasks with the swift ease of long practice.

To Snowstripe's bemusement, Lyulf then gestured to the entrance of another den nearby, with a brief command in the desert language. Four of the foxes bowed and trotted off immediately, disappearing one after another into the tunnel.

The big red fox turned back to the line of slaves, who stood motionless, heads bowed; a few were coughing hoarsely at the grit the scorching wind swept into their faces. "Now, you lot," he said cheerily, reverting to the speech common to the Mossflower regions, "listen up. Ye may think yer here to labor fer me, or that I want some grand fortress built in these wastes. Well, me pretties, fear not, for that don't be the case. I'll suffice it to say that I'm off on a crusade, and yer t' be my soldiers."

He was grinning broadly again, cunning eyes flickering over their thin, confused faces. The captives were staring blankly at the fox, or casting bewildered looks at one another; none had ever heard of being captured for such a reason, and certainly not woodlanders and vermin together. Yet Snowstripe had his gaze elsewhere; he had heard a sudden tramp of footpaws and clanking of chains, and soon enough, the desert foxes led another line of creatures, manacled together at the ankle, up to join the first.

The young badger could not hold back a gasp; he had seen how ill-treated his fellows on the march had been, how muted and starved they had swiftly become. Yet these beasts were different. Though by no means sleek or bursting with good health, they were nowhere near as emaciated, and seemed muscular and alert enough. They stood perfectly to attention, silent, as the desert foxes prowled up and down the line. A few, mostly the woodlanders, looked upon the new captives with something like amusment or perhaps pity, but by and large their eyes were expressionless.

Lyulf made a grand, sweeping gesture with one paw, his bracelets clinking faintly. "These are but a few of my soldiers," he called proudly, and as he declaimed, the rough accent had almost vanished from his voice. "I believe, together with the foxes, that our ranks now number almost four- or fivescore. But fear not our small numbers, for they have been well-trained. And our enemies, though they are three hundred strong," he growled suddenly, a note of savage fury entering his voice, "have shown themselves to be cowardly and weak, and I know now that they are swiftly decaying."

But the new recruits, and even some of the soldiers, looked unsettled; a few gulped nervously. They were to fight against an army with three times their numbers? The red fox saw this, and though he still smiled, his eyes narrowed coldly. "Of course," he added, "I know that some of you may not want to fight fer my cause." His paw swept over the barren landscape as he spoke. "And that," he added, "is what the desert's for. Yer may walk off t'begin a new life whensoever ye choose. I reckon ye can make the best of... oh, I'll say about five minutes."

As if on cue, a buzzard shrieked overhead. Snowstripe squinted upwards nervously, but could see nothing in the blinding sunlight.

"Right," Lyulf continued, nodding with a satisfied air. "In that case, will each of yer pick up a bow an' one arrow, which as y'can see has been placed by yer side fer th' utmost convenience. I ain't gonna instruct yer this minute, mind, I want t' see wot ye know already." As he spoke, he stepped off to the side, out of range of the arrows. "On my word... ready... aim... _fire!_" he barked.

There were thirteen creatures in Snowstripe's line. Only two arrows hit the targets; that of the brown squirrel, who had gotten his almost dead center, and the stoat who had given Snowstripe water on the journey. All but one of the rest landed at various points in the sand; Snowstripe was still struggling to load and draw his bow, and when he finally pulled back and released the string, the arrow merely flopped to the ground a few inches away.

Lyulf slapped a paw to his face in defeat. "I see this is goin' ter take a while. But lessee here..." He walked slowly along the line, looking from captives to targets, a desert fox hurrying along in his wake. "All righty, yer there, stoat, an' ye, the squirrel..." As he pointed, the fox unchained the ones he indicated from the line, motioning them away from the rest.

In a short time he reached the end, and the young badger felt himself cringe as the ornamented paw pointed squarely at him. "Oh, an' Snowy 'ere. Yer know," Lyulf said conversationally to the smaller fox, who nodded fervently despite not understanding a word, "I'm really quite amazed at 'is talent."

* * *

**A/N: Great Cthulhu, this took a while to finish. I just encountered some minor difficulties with how Lyulf was going to present the mission, and how much he was really going to tell them. This fic shall be up and running properly again quite soon, I hope. (is **_**totally **_**not neglecting her term paper)**


	11. Doubt

Ciánan's eyes glimmered from the shadows, bright as the sunlight that fell upon the medallion around his neck. He had been watching the scene with fascination for some time, having tracked the discordant sounds of screams, curses, and clashing weaponry to their source. Now it was deathly silent, and three vermin lay motionless in the bloodstained grass.

The survivors crouched nearby, panting as they nursed their wounds, eyes flicking nervously back and forth. From his position behind the tree, Ciánan could see their white-knuckled paws, still clenched tight around bloodied weapons, and catch the slowly fading scent of fear. Yet the weasel's attention was focused on the victor, and his mind was whirling as he took stock of the situation. The stoat was a large, brutish-looking creature, whose small, close-set eyes still burned feverishly from his sweaty face, daring the surrounding beasts to challenge his new authority. None of the others, the weasel noted, had yet dared to meet his gaze.

As he watched, the stoat turned his head and spat scornfully upon the carcass lying nearest to him, an old, dark-furred fox. "That'll show yer, y'scrawny, dribblin' ol' dog. Thought yer could keep us 'ere f'rever, eh? Well, I says we're gonna start raidin', an plunder an' kill who we likes, see!" He grinned inanely, showing fangs blackened by decay; as he brandished his dripping scimitar, a few of his cohorts gave a hoarse cheer.

A jovial, calm voice rang out from the clearing's edge. "Now don't you think that's a bit unimaginative, just plundering an' killing? I could name you threescore other vermin bands doin' the exact same thing."

The stoat whirled about with a snarl, waving the bloodied sword threateningly at the intruder. "Who th' bleedin' 'ell ya think yer are? I just took control o' this lot meself. An' I ain't seen yer 'round 'ere neither, yer arrogant liddle... garrrghhh!" His words became a choked, frothing gurgle as he collapsed to the ground; the surrounding vermin, whose slow gazes had seen nothing but a bright flash in the air, gasped in horror and confusion when a bloodied knife suddenly appeared in their leader's throat.

"Any other questions?" the weasel asked, his eyes scanning the terrified, dumbly gaping creatures, who were looking, en masse, in a sort of shocked reverence at his Abbey clothing, the golden pendant dangling from its glimmering chain, his sparkling blue-gray eyes. He smiled at them when no answer came, and his face was so friendly, so utterly and innocently cheerful, that the expression almost scared them more than the knife.

They cowered away from him, their eyes narrowed in fear, when he walked into the clearing and sat down among them. After a few minutes of tense silence, a ferret rose to his footpaws. Several of his comrades gasped with dread as he trotted forward, with the young weasel watching calmly. The mangy creature stooped and pulled the knife from the stoat's corpse, and presented it, hilt-first, to the stranger, who stood and bowed politely before accepting his weapon.

In answer, the ferret faced the rest of the gang and growled matter-of-factly, "Dunno 'bout yer lot, but I'd say 'e's leader now, seein' as 'e did fer ol' Revak, an 'e were tougher 'n steel an' nastier 'n an adder. I wouldn't wanna cross this 'ere blue-eyes if I was yer, mates- er, beggin yer pardon there," he added hurriedly, but the weasel merely waved a nonchalant paw.

There was a pause, and then a hesitant, ragged cheer. Ciánan laughed with delight, and beckoned them closer. His voice was low, confidential, as he whispered softly, "How'd you like to conquer something real, something _big? _Follow me, and your names will be remembered for eternity!"

As he spoke, a wind sprang up; the shadow of a swaying tree had fallen across his face, throwing his lowered head into darkness. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, several of the vermin shuddered as they watched him speak, for his eyes shone like blue flame.

* * *

Though underground once more, Snowstripe felt none of his previous panic; instead, he felt as though his entire body was burning with embarassment under the scrutiny of every other beast in the den that served as the soldiers' barracks. He heard low mutterings, a few snickers, and even snarls of disbelief, though Lyulf's voice still rang in his ears. _"This is Snowstripe, lads, and 'e's yer new lieutenant."_

_Lieutenant... lieutenant... lieutenant... _The word chased itself round and round in his dazed mind. They had all seen him drop the arrow; he had seen the red fox savagely chastise the other recruits who had failed, snarling at them and ordering two lashes each from the desert foxes' whips, before picking up a bow and arrow and instructing them himself.

Yet the other two he had taken from the line he had praised for their obvious skill, and so when it came to Snowstripe the young badger had feared the worst. But then he had been paraded in front of the rest, dazed and cowering, with Lyulf's paw clamped firmly on his shoulder as the fox ordered his soldiers to cheer their new officer.

He shuddered with confusion and fear, gazing back at the surrounding beasts dumbly; for a moment he thought their eyes glowed in the dim light, aflame with scorn and hatred, but he shook his head and the vision passed.

"S'pose it ain't too mad, considerin' the rest o' this rot," a voice growled from nearby. "Bring me ter a desert wid a bunch o' bloody woodbeasts, lashed an' starved an' trained day after day 'til I finally get some skill an' strength knocked inter me... why not get a soft liddle stripe'ound ter order us around like 'e's a born warrior?" A soft, rasping laugh followed, close by the young badger's ear. Snowstripe whirled around to get a better look at the speaker, and recoiled with a yelp as he saw a lean, scarred rat's face leering inches from his own.

" 'Ello, stripey," the creature said with a nasty grin. "Nice ter see yer ain't easily frighted."

"L...l...leave me alone," Snowstripe muttered nervously, half-baring his teeth as he shrunk away from the sneering rat, who leaned back, clapping a long-clawed paw to his forehead in mock terror.

"Ah, I'd better watch out fer my new officer, nasty killer stripe'ound this'n! 'Ey, wot's this?" He eyed the badger in sudden fascination as Snowstripe gave a low moan and collapsed back, hanging his head.

_Nasty killer stripehound... killer... killer... killer... _The rat's face, twisting and morphing, filled his mind's eye, until it became his father, roaring and crimson-eyed. Snowstripe whined piteously, feeling hot sand beneath his huddled body, Russano's howl ringing in his ears, and he did not know, as he sank into a grieving, panicked delirium, that he was crying aloud. "Melanius! Father- no- I- the crater- Mela, sister, sister, Father- _no!" _

Somebeast slapped him hard across the face, and he yelped with the sudden stab of pain, before falling into a miserable silence. "The 'ell is wrong wid 'im?" the rat snarled from above, and was echoed, in mutters, around the room.

The young badger could only snuffle, feeling tears well in his eyes, as the low voices turned to snickers. "Wonder what the fox sees in 'im? Look, now 'e's bawlin' on the floor."

"Haven't got a clue. We certainly can't say 'tis his skill at archery."

"Maybe 'is dad could tell us, 'ey?" Laughter at this last remark; somebeast kicked him, none too gently, in the side.

"I 'eard the Badger Lord had a son," another commented. "Fine specimen, if this is him. Wonder how he ever got 'ere, too."

"Will yer look at that? 'E's royalty t' boot!" More laughter.

" 'Course 'e's royalty, yer think Jamadagni'd pick some bastard cub outta nowhere? That'n's chosen by the fire god!"

"Haha, nice'n, mate. Huh, if that fox's a god I'll eat my own tail off. If he really expects us t' believe-"

"Shut it, cleversnout, or one o' them little devils'll keep yer to that promise. 'Ere they come now!"

"Aye, shut it, food's here!"

Snowstripe heard the soft tapping of paws on the packed sand, and managed to sit up and watch as two desert foxes circled the barracks, distributing skins of water and rations. Blinking through watery eyes at his meagre amount of food, the young badger saw that he had been given, like the rest, a piece of flatbread and, he was disgusted to see, strips of dried meat. His father had taught him never to kill other animals for food, and yet, as he looked around, he was further shocked to note that the goodbeasts tore into the meat as savagely as the vermin. He gnawed on the flatbread to fight down his growing nausea, and did not notice or care when the rat's paw darted out and seized the rest of his food.

The water he gulped down with haste; he had never felt so continually thirsty in his life, yet the skin was empty in moments, and he still felt bone-dry. Huddling farther into the corner of the den, he closed his eyes and soon fell into an uneasy, guilt-laden sleep.

* * *

Rosalaun and the hares stood gazing out at the desert before them; it was nearing evening, and the sun was low and red in the sky, swathed in wisps of dark cloud.

"D'you think he could have run off out there, m'lady?" one said at last.

"I do not know," Rosalaun replied after a moment. "We saw his tracks leading into these flatlands, but beyond that there was nothing. Either he turned back somewhere... or something has happened." The last three words emerged choked and hesitant, but the Badger Lady stood taller and showed no further sign of emotion.

"There haven't been slavers reported around these lands for untold seasons," another hare said at last.

"True," she answered, "Perhaps there are not, and my son ran out there through blind fear. But if there are, what would they want in the desert? However, I do not want to risk our patrol out there; of the land itself we know little, and of its dangers almost nothing at all. Above all, it will be near impossible to find even the faintest remnant of tracks by now."

She fell silent as she looked out over the ocean of sand, her dark eyes troubled. At last she spoke, and her words were heavy with sorrow and weariness. "I... do not think Snowstripe is in the desert. One or two of the hares who witnessed it said he went south, but after that he could have chosen any direction. And frightened as he was, 'tis so unlikely he would have..." She trailed off, staring off to the distant horizon, her dark eyes troubled.

"One or two of us could do a brief recon out there, wot," the hare suggested, but the Lady shook her head slowly.

"And consign my own beasts to a slow death in those wastes on the merest chance? We will find a way around the edges of the desert, and continue south. If we fail to find him, we shall return and find the other patrols. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, m'lady!" barked the hares in unison.

"Patrol, move out!" Rosalaun cried, and the small group wheeled and marched away, heading in a looping, vaguely eastern course. The hares were silent, each trying desperately to figure out a way Snowstripe might be found.

The Badger Lady looked out once more at the desert, fast receding into the distance, and felt something, vague, unnameable, stir feebly in her mind. A bird of prey shrieked harshly overhead, and with the piercing sound the feeling vanished.

Then there was only the thunder of marching paws and the pounding of her heart, resounding in her ears as she led her Long Patrol onwards under the swiftly darkening sky.


	12. The Revelation

The ferret could not sleep that night, and after nearly an hour of tossing and turning, which various amounts of alcohol did nothing to relieve, he was soon prowling restlessly around the camp. When he neared the clearing's edge, his nose wrinkled at a strong, putrid scent, and, gazing downward, he made out the dim outlines of the afternoon's casualties. On the chest of the closest, there squatted something ragged and jet-black, a dark, shifting shadow against the night. The crow raised its head, its beady eyes glinting, and squawked hoarsely at the creature interrupting its meal.

"Alright, alright, I'm movin," the ferret growled, not wanting the bird's harsh cry to wake his new leader. He had just begun to pad off when he saw a movement among the tree roots close by, and the gleam of faint starlight on gold. _The weasel was awake!_

Panicking at being caught roaming the camp, the ferret leapt over the hollow log and flattened himself behind it, praying that he would be concealed from view as the weasel moved slowly over to the corpses and crouched down before the largest. Even at night, the ferret immediately recognized the massive, thickset form as Revak, victor of the mutiny and leader for less than five minutes altogether. Then his ears pricked up; the weasel was speaking, in a low voice barely above a whisper, and constricted with growing anguish. Utterly bemused, the ferret listened closely, pressing himself even further into the earth.

"I don't even know who you are, I'll never know, you're like the rabbit, I just took your life for my own gain... Hellgates, I don't even know what's happening to me..." A new, desperate note entered his voice as he went on, and the words rushed out faster and faster; he was almost babbling.

"Tonight, like every night, I dreamed of the mountain, and it was closer than I ever saw it before... I saw the huge skeleton, in armor and war helm, I saw the dark chamber and I felt the greatest joy, the greatest triumph, such as I only felt when I sliced open your throat... Please forgive me, I'm not what you thought I was, I... I never meant... I'm not..."

He broke off, bowing his head in grief. Though the stars and waning moon did not afford much light, the astonished ferret saw, with peculiar clarity, the tears slowly trickling down the weasel's muzzle.

* * *

Snowstripe's legs had begun to tremble, sweat dripping from his brow, as he stood before his opponent; his heart was pounding with nervousness and the exertion of keeping the sword held up before him. It was a large broadsword, with a wrought-iron hilt, lovingly polished to a brilliance that was eye-searing in the powerful desert sun.

The fox was watching the panting young badger closely, never taking his golden eyes away, his scimitar held ready in one paw for the slightest attack. Snowstripe moaned softly to himself. He was unsure how he was supposed to learn from this at all; he knew nothing in the foxes' strange language, save a few commands they had used on the slaves during the march. The others from his journey were training nearby, but their instructors were the more experienced soldiers. It was baffling, and Snowstripe could find no explanation for Lyulf's decision.

He was a high-ranking officer now, though, the badger reasoned, and Lyulf inexplicably doted on him. Perhaps the small foxes would obey him, too, despite the speech barrier. "Can we please stop?" he said slowly and carefully. "I don't know how to swordfight, and I don't speak your tongue. I'm not a warrior, I can't do this. Stop?" he said hopefully. The fox's gaze never changed. His grip shifted slightly on the bone handle.

Snowstripe tried again, this time in a poor imitation of the word his slavemasters had used when they desired the line to halt. His instructor's eyes narrowed angrily, and he snarled something in a low voice. The badger assumed it wasn't complimentary; evidently the insulted fox had taken it for a command, rather than a polite request.

With a quiet, exasperated sigh, Snowstripe lowered the sword, hoping he could fix things before the situation worsened. There was a sand-colored blur, a flash of metal, and in the next instant he was lying on his back in the dust, the scimitar's point pressing against his throat.

He whimpered faintly, too terrified to move, and the fox released him and moved away to resume his former post. Snowstripe scrambled up, brushing sand from his pelt, and, wheezing and groaning, managed to lift the broadsword. The fox watched the frantically wobbling blade with perfect calm, yet the young badger was seething with fury. With a furious growl, he lunged forward, tripped on a rock, and came crashing to the ground once more at the fox's footpaws.

A shadow fell over him, and he heard the desert fox murmur fearfully, _"Jamadagni!" _He looked up, sneezing at the sand in his nose, and saw Lyulf grinning down at him, earrings swaying, his ornate headpiece tipped at a roguish angle over his tattooed brow.

"Doin' excellently as always, Lieutenant Snowy, eh?" the fox said cheerily. "Get up, me lad, I'll 'elp yer out." With a muffled groan, Snowstripe rose once more, struggling to lift the broadsword again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the desert fox watching their every move in reverent awe.

He saw that Lyulf had a wicked-looking curved sword in one paw, held with the casual ease of one who knew quite well how to use it. Snowstripe gulped fearfully, and the lesson commenced.

* * *

Russano lay alone on his bed, his eyes closed, one mighty paw thrown over his face. He felt utterly paralyzed still, though it had been long since... since... And still the convulsions came, without warning, though the attendant fever and delirium had abated a few days before, much to the relief of the hares.

The rush of the ocean at the shore far below seemed loud in his ears, and a blackness slowly crept, from the edges of his vision, to enfold the shuddering Badger Lord.

He stood alone in a familiar chamber, one he had visited many times before; carvings and badger script covered the stone walls, and the soothing scent of herbs wreathed the smoky air. Suddenly there was a change in the silent room; he felt another presence, and instinctively bowed his massive head.

Then the badger appeared before him, a male of size and power to rival Russano's own bulk, clad in ceremonial war armor and helmet. The apparition raised a gauntleted paw and removed the helm, looking upon the Badger Lord. Though his features were strong and forbidding, those of a true warrior Lord, there was yet some soft compassion lingering in his eyes.

Russano breathed deeply, inhaling the sweetness of the incense, and closed his eyes as the room faded into shadow.

In a voice so deep and powerful it brought to mind the very deepest reaches of the mountain, of dark and ancient caverns far below the earth, protectors of a thousand secret things, the spectral badger spoke, and his words echoed and re-echoed off the carven walls.

_"With the fall came rage and stain of red,_

_So tainted, thus destined for the hidden stone,_

_The mountain's bane will be the mountain Lord's return,_

_And the scholar must seek his fate alone._

_The guardian of old, soon scattered, hides_

_In shadowed glory behind bronze plate,_

_His armor worthless to blinded eyes,_

_For tainted iron the lust will sate._

_Ancient trees shall hold the answer,_

_Of fallen's honor in days of yore,_

_Fear not, white spirit guides your kin,_

_Yet as the servant of fate approaches, so false gods thirst for war."_

* * *

**A/N: I really do hate having to write poetry. Blasted prophecies...**

**Anyway, hope the Ciánan angst is more to your liking, Adderstar. xD **


	13. All In The Mind

Kouran Syrr watched the dawn break over the flatlands, his amber eyes gleaming with savage anticipation. The wildcat smiled as he saw that the sun was blood-red; it was a good omen, and a fitting one. There was a flicker of shadow, a scuffle and soft jingling; and an old vixen, bent with age, covered in jewelry, and swathed in a heavy black cloak, scuttled over to crouch beside him.

The ancient creature chuckled as she watched her master turn to stare at the mountain, now less than half a day's march away. "A wise one thou be indeed, Syrr," she rasped, "the Juskasyrr shall enjoy a glory greater than they have ever known by thy might."

Syrr turned to look at her, a sneer curling his lip to bare long fangs. "Why must ye tell me what I already know, deathless one? From the moment Ruggan Bor, leader of the most powerful Juska clan, fled back to his lands as the lowliest of cowards, we were freed from his shadow. We were always the second tribe, just below the Juskabor, to be feared the most; now we shall be feared above all. And I shall be no longer a chieftain of starving raiders, as well ye know, Tala."

Tala grinned broadly, showing the last of her blackened, decaying teeth. "Aye, Kouran Syrr, now must thou tarry all the morning? Do not delay thy destiny; to thy conquest!"

He rose, tail lashing, unsheathed claws glinting faintly red in the light. "Aye," he echoed, his voice a snarl, "to the conquest!"

* * *

The minds of every vermin in the band reeled as one; it was a strange thing, after seasons of wandering wherever they chose and resting, eating, or killing as they saw fit, direction always uncertain with the constant struggles for power, to be continously marching towards a goal, and under a fearsome, unchallenged leader.

The young weasel with the blue-gray eyes had begun their journey at sunrise, and despite the early hour they had obeyed without question. Though the pace he set was fast and harsh, and the vermin were lazy and weak, his determination was infectious, and their ragged chests swelled with pride as they imagined themselves part of a mighty horde.

The ferret, marching near the back, had been quaking with nerves the entire morning; what if the weasel had seen him watching the night before? He was terrified that his leader would feel his gaze upon his back, and tried fitfully to stare at the ground and lose his mind in the tramp of marching paws, but he could not tear his eyes away from the lean, habit-clad figure, now such a figure of power and glory to come.

By that evening they had reached the outer fringes of Mossflower, where the trees were widely spaced and, in the distance, the loam mingled with and, by the next morning, finally gave way to sand; the vermin breathed deeply of the cooling air, tasting the salt as they listened to the rush of the sea.

His voice was soft as he pointed towards the west. "Look!" As one, the band turned and looked at the monolith rearing up from the shore, and at the sunlight flickering gold upon the sea. Several sighed covetously, grinning as they saw the mountain, too, bathed in radiance; a prelude or a sign, perhaps, to what they had been assured lay within.

Ciánan gave a low, dark chuckle, feeling his heartbeat race with a surge of hot blood. His vision blurred, dimmed; mirages of metal, bones, precious gems, gold, silver, danced in front of his eyes; exhilaration was replaced by a sudden fear. The hallucinations would not stop, and the young weasel felt a cold sweat trickle down his back.

"Am I going mad?" he whispered softly, under his breath so that his followers could not hear. "I keep seeing things, not just in dreams anymore..." He stared off towards the dark tower of the mountain, and as though in answer, a soft, eager laughter echoed in his ears.

Ciánan swung his head around frantically; the vermin under his burning gaze looked back in fearful puzzlement. Nobeast had moved or spoken, yet the demonic sound still resounded through his mind, growing ever louder and more terrible with savage delight.

"Come _on!" _he snarled suddenly, whirling on the vermin band. "You won't meet your fortunes by lying about and drooling, you worthless heaps of offal. Move!" In moments they were up and marching again, and all delusions had vanished from his senses. He welcomed the growing ache in his legs and footpaws; it kept his mind firmly grounded in reality, in the journey he felt bound to make.

* * *

Russano could not stop his pacing, his footpaws following the same path around and around the stone floor as the lines of the prophecy in his mind. Circles, ever in circles, and no meaning drew closer as the minutes trickled by, save that of the first line.

_"With the fall came rage and stain of red..." _The words echoed over and over in his ears, and with a cold, guilty feeling of mingled grief and shame the Badger Lord knew that the spectral Lord had meant the death of his daughter, and his own Bloodwrath, the first he had ever experienced in his life. It was as though something had been taken from him, as though his own sudden bloodlust had gouged a wound in his chest.

Russano drew a deep, shuddering gasp, and tried to focus his dazed mind on the next line. _"So tainted, thus destined for the hidden stone..." _

He felt a faint, perverse kind of reassurance at this; it had had to happen sooner or later, for it was clearly a part of his destiny. But what on earth was the "hidden stone?"

Raising his head, the great badger stared out of his chamber window, red-rimmed eyes blankly surveying the dark ocean, the sand whipped from the tops of the dunes by a soft night breeze and dancing over the dull sweep of the flatlands, and at last gazing upwards to the faint, cold stars. Nothing stirred over his lands; he saw no answer to his prophecy or to his constant grief. It was utterly silent, save for the gentle breath of the wind and the eternal rush that was the Great Western Sea.

Russano turned away from the window, collapsed onto his bed, and, within moments, had fallen into a dark and troubled sleep.

* * *

Snowstripe was shaking from ears to tail with fear, his gaze drawn inexorably to the curved sword held casually in Lyulf's paw no matter how hard he tried to look away. It was a fearsome blade, sickle-shaped and brightly polished, with a notched bone handle that had yellowed with time.

The young badger found himself wondering where the bone had come from, how many lives, unjustly taken, were represented by the crude notches in its weathered surface, and felt nausea rising in the back of his throat.

A loud snap of the fox's claws brought him out of his sickened reverie. "That ain't no way for a lieutenant to be'ave, me lad," Lyulf said reprovingly, though he still smiled. "Pay attention when I'm teachin' yer, ye 'ear?" Snowstripe shook himself frantically and threw a clumsy salute. Unfortunately, his other paw could not support the weight of the heavy broadsword on its own, and the weapon clattered to the ground as his failing grip slackened.

Lyulf said nothing, waiting patiently, and the tension-laden silence was perhaps worse than any punishment, verbal or physical, he could have given as Snowstripe scrambled to pick up the sword once again, panting with exertion as sweat trickled down his back and brow.

"Right," the fox said at last, when his protége had managed to lift his weapon and stand before him on trembling legs. "First thing yer gotta learn is 'ow t' _lunge. _Now," and he dropped into a crouch, "stand just like I'm doin'."

With much gasping and frantic stumbling, Snowstripe forced his footpaws into a vague semblance of the fox's stance, his arms now shaking uncontrollably under the weight of the sword.

"Good," Lyulf said with a grin. "Now, when I says 'three,' yer lunge out at me. One- two- _three!"_

The young badger was utterly bemused; Lyulf had said nothing about exactly _how _to lunge. But he did not wish to keep the fox waiting, and so flung himself forward as he had done before, actually closing his eyes in fear as he slashed out clumsily with the broadsword. The sudden shift in balance, however, proved to be too much for his tired body, and the blade went flying once again as Snowstripe crashed facedown into the dust.

Though every muscle in his body screamed its protest, he scrabbled back up, ragged chest heaving, squinting through sore and bleary eyes at the fox. "Snowy, lad..." Lyulf sighed after a moment, and Snowstripe went numb with horror. He did not want to imagine the price he would have to pay for failing the lesson. But- the fox continued to speak.

"...I ain't never seen a lunge that good. Never told me you'd 'ad warrior trainin'! Clever little blighter, 'ey, pretendin' ye didn't know ought just ter show off in front o' me! Why, I probably don't 'ave to teach yer at all!" He strode forward and clapped Snowstripe on the back, laughing softly. "Go get a bit o' rest, lad. Can't have ye tired out, there's very important things ahead for ye."

"A'right," the badger mumbled thickly, his mind dulled with heat, exhaustion, and Lyulf's strange behavior. Leaving the broadsword where it had fallen, he staggered off for the den, all but senseless, blind and deaf to the stares and snickers of the other soldiers as they watched him pass.

"Aye," the fox repeated softly as he watched Snowstripe go, his fangs showing in a wide grin. "_Very_ important things..."

* * *

"Lord Russano! Lord, can you hear me? Wake up, sah! Vermin at the gates!"

The Badger Lord struggled into consciousness, fighting sleep from his befuddled mind with difficulty. It took a moment before he realized that a hare was shaking him by the shoulders, or at least attempting to. His ears were ringing from the frantic shouts, turning them into incomprehensible noise.

"Can you hear me, sah? Look at me, Russano sah! Vermin at the gates! We need you there now!"

The great head slowly turned. "Vermin?" came a slow, hoarse echo.

"Yes sah, a bally great wildcat an' a whole lot of Juska rabble! The cat called 'imself Sir or summat, an' he's demanded to speak with ye!"

With a great effort, Russano struggled up, picking up his hardwood stick from its table by the bed. His tunic was stained with sweat, rumpled and creased; he had slept in it, and tossed and turned all the while in the grip of nightmares. He was unconscious of his appearance, however, which was only added to by his drooping, bloodshot eyes and disheveled fur. His once-massive frame seemed frail and sunken, and he trembled constantly, as though his grief had surpassed mere emotion and become a disease.

The Long Patrol colonel, a gruff and no-nonsense type of beast, was deeply shaken as he urged his Lord down the steps of the mountain and out into the morning.

Kouran Syrr laughed aloud as he saw the badger emerge from the mountain. How much of a coward had Ruggan Bor truly been, to flee from this pathetic beast that looked as though it would fall over and die at any moment, and clutched a piece of fire-wood in its paw in place of a weapon!

"We have watched you for a long time, stripedog they call Russano the Wise!" the wildcat called.

"Impossible, cat!" one of the hares surrounding Russano barked in reply. "We watch these flatlands an' shores like 'awks! You're talkin' through yore tail if you think you could hide all those rotten barbarians 'round 'ere, an' we outnumber yore savages ten to one t' boot!"

Kouran merely sneered. "So ye may think, longears. We dug into the sand dunes; we concealed ourselves in ways of which you know nothing, and no thought or deed can be hidden from my Seer's arts. We know that the she-cub died, and that the male cub was forced to flee. We know that the female stripedog has left the mountain, and most importantly, we know that she has taken all but threescore of your forces with her, while I now have four hundred Juskasyrr at my command!

"Look at yourself, stripedog, you are being eaten away from the inside! I will have your mountain, and I will no longer be the leader of a petty band of murderers; Kouran Syrr shall be ruler of the entire coast, and of every Juskabeast!"

"Kouran Syrr speaks truly!" shrieked a toothless vixen standing at the wildcat's side. "His Juskasyrr shall conquer the fire mountain!"

Syrr motioned her into silence with a casual wave of his gauntleted paw. He had seen that the badger was about to speak.

"Never..." came the hoarse, labored answer. "Take your Juska vermin and leave. You... you lie. I have hundreds more hares in Salamandastron, each one armed and ready to-"

"Do not toy with me, stripedog!" Kouran Syrr snarled. "Your lies are as feeble as yourself. But," he continued, "I am a merciful victor. I will give you three days to decide. At sunset of the third day, I will return, and you will tell me whether you care to be sensible and leave, or stay here and die!"

* * *

**A/N: It's not dead yet! I don't quite know what happened; my interest in my fanfiction just kind of evaporated. This chapter has been sitting around, in various stages of completion, for a while, and I finally worked up the will to finish it. I will definitely be completing this, since I have everything worked out and it would be unfair not to finish it. **

**(If anyone's curious, in the intervening three months of my hiatus, I joined the PPC and started working on a mission or two, and also discovered that I am, in fact, a total Trekkie. **

**Oh, and I'm also working on another Sue-parody oneshot with Kelaiah, which, unfortunately, has been treated likewise. Sorry, Kel. Not your fault.)**

**And thanks to Jade TeaLeaf, for informing me that people do actually kind of want to know what happens.**


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